Shokunin

By Ben Stubbing

(You can read the parent post to this essay here.)

There is an abundance of human excellence in cooking. But there is perhaps no better illustration of commitment to this excellence than there is in sushi. And there is perhaps no sushi chef more committed to excellence than Jiro Ono:

The skill of a shokunin such as Jiro is in concealing effort. The first time you see Jiro make sushi, you can tell it is elegant, but most of its quality is hidden from the casual observer. Food critic Masuhiro Yamamoto described Jiro’s cooking philosophy as "ultimate simplicity leading to purity." It is his commitment to refining the margins of sushi at every margin that makes his cooking so deceptively complex. 

About 85 per cent of the cooking is done before Jiro steps into the kitchen. The tako that Jiro daintily places in front of his customers appears to be nothing more than a small piece of octopus hand-pressed atop a mound of rice. But behind the scenes, an apprentice has massaged the octopus for 50 minutes, reducing the rubbery mouthfeel to silk. At one point the Grand Hyatt hotel broached Jiro’s rice dealer about sourcing some of Jiro’s exclusive rice crop. Jiro’s rice dealer laughed and said, "even if I wanted to sell it to them, Jiro’s the only one who knows how to cook it." Jiro puts a lot of pressure on his rice—not figuratively. After washing the rice, an apprentice heaves—with both hands—a lid atop of the vat. Then a stockpot full of water is put on top of the lid for good measure. The higher pressure makes the rice boil at a higher temperature, which it more conducive to the Maillard reaction, making the rice more aromatic. 

Yamamoto says Jiro’s sushi course is like a concerto, where the meal is divided into three movements. First, there are classic items, like tuna and kohada. Next, there are fresh catches of the day and certain items that can only be found seasonally are served. Some of the fish is raw while some is cooked. The second movement is like an improvisation—a cadenza. In the third movement, sea eel, kanpyo, and egg comprise a traditional finale. There are dynamics in the way the sushi is served, just like music.

In David Gelb’s film, Jiro Dreams of Sushi, this concerto is set to Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 21 which features poignant minor modulations, exquisite suspensions and resolutions, clever use of interrupted phrases, and the iconic tenderly rippling and defiantly simple triplet accompaniment. But the sum is so much greater than the parts. While the concerto plays, Jiro’s assembly of the sushi begins to resemble cooking less and less and becomes artistry nearer the divine. The way he presses the sushi just so is like a plié. The placement of the glossy tuna atop the rice, which throws the pink flesh in stark relief against the blank canvas of the white rice and the simple black plate below, is a composition. The brushstroke of soy sauce along a hamaguri clam is more than just adding a condiment; it is resolving a cadence. 

Sushi is about perfection, but it is a bit like The Beatles' White Album, which people think is simple and not overproduced. In fact, it's their most highly produced album. Producing something to sound like it is underproduced is extremely difficult and widely admired. It is the same quality that people see in Roger Federer, who makes the game look oh so easy. Similarly, Jiro’s sushi concentrates all the idylls of expert craftsmanship and then introduces a little sprezzatura, a certain nonchalance, concealing design and making whatever he does appear to be without effort and almost without thought. It is, human excellence.