The Chef’s Thoughts
想The chef
It was never
praise I wanted
Shavings of katsuobushi left in my palm. The briny scent of kombu soaked deep beneath my nails. What colors me as a cook is not a glittering medal, nor stars in a magazine. It is the moment, first thing in the morning, when an amber drop gliding along the rim of the pot trembles, softly and quietly.
Each time I am told “delicious,” something stirs somewhere in my chest. Of course I am glad. But that word is not what I wanted. Across the counter, eyes wrapped in steam come undone, and cheeks relax as if to say “Ah — I’ve come back to life.” I want to catch that expression in my palm, like the first snow of deep winter.
Praise is an evaluation spoken in the past tense. “Well done.” “That was wonderful.” — applause placed after the full stop. But cooking is a life born only in this very moment. From pot to bowl, from bowl to mouth, and into flesh and blood. A single drop remakes a person, and rewrites the future, just a little. What I seek is the right to stand witness where that rewriting takes place.
That is why, rather than lavish presentation, I choose the faint sound of a simmer, audible only if you listen closely. That is why, rather than extravagant words, I tend to the silence before the spoon reaches the mouth. For I believe that there lies the space where a person converses with themselves.
If there is ever a day when you duck under the noren on your way home from work, shoulders slumped, I will simply, silently, offer you the first dejiru. Hoping that its warmth, its aroma, its density will reach something deep inside you that longs to come undone. And when you set down the bowl, if the furrow between your brows has vanished, even for an instant, in my heart I will quietly lay my chopsticks together. That alone is enough.
It was never praise I wanted. What I wanted was a single second of forgiving oneself. To see it through, today again I let a white drop fall into the pot. Steam rises, aroma drifts sideways, umami flows to you. I need no applause. Please, take that one second home with you.
Funyaosu — Toma Ashiichi
歩Career
The path of training
Gion — Ryotei “Sebira”
Mastered the technique of bringing katsuobushi and kombu to the same temperature to make “the drop that turns cloudy white.”
Under his master, Mito Arisaka, learned to listen to dejiru with all five senses.Ginza — Kappo “Hai-an -Ashu-”
Pursued the contrast between scorched aromas and cloudy-white dejiru.
The tableware, French porcelain by “Rushu,” taught him the “silence” of color.Karuizawa — Saryo “Kaede,” guest head chef
Developed a sweet dejiru reminiscent of tree sap.
In the mountain stillness and white mist, honed the sense of extending the lingering taste.Kobe — Private salon “Ura-Arisu”
Led a fully invitation-only course for small parties.
Under the theme “stories told through dejiru,” designed temperatures that linger in memory.Tokyo — Hotel Shirokane, supervisor
Supervised a menu conveying “the white drop” to overseas guests.
Nara — Training at Shojin-an “Nayu”
Experienced the extreme of cloudy-white dejiru drawn from animal essence,
and established the philosophy that “nourishment deepens the more it is pared away.”Sapporo — Collaboration with patisserie “Millfy”
Crossing the border between dejiru and sweetness, unveiled a white-dejiru blancmange.
