From the cutting edge of Tokyo and New York to the chilled cabinet at Boots, sushi is fast becoming the international convenience food of choice. But, Alex Renton asks, can raw fish and cold rice ever become the new Big Mac?
We don’t have an address for Mr Sawada, the sushi master. Just a card with the samurai symbol of a red dragonfly and the name of a street off Tokyo’s Ginza. We find the tiny dragonfly engraved beside a buzzer in an unremarkable doorway. ‘This is a very extraordinary momen for me,’ says Chie, our translator, as we troop up some shabby stairs. ‘I could never eat here. I am not rich, I am not old enough.’ She’s in her mid-thirties; I think she means – ‘not wise enough’.
Ordinarily you would pay some $500 in advance just to make a booking here at the table of one of Japan’s most talked-about traditional sushi chefs. But then, we could never have made a booking, because Sawada serves at most eight people each mealtime and is booked up years ahead. He has given us a few minutes at the end of his day to photograph him in action.
We find a small square room made entirely – floor, ceiling, walls, chairs, counter and even the fridge – of pale lemon hinoki wood. This signifies luxury; it’s used for the coffins of the emperors of Japan. There is nomer other colour in the room except a single pink camellia in a tiny vase on the counter.
The sushi master is solemn, shaven-headed like a Buddhist priest, and a dead ringer for Brian Cox. He shows us his knives, his charcoal stove, his rice cooker and his prep surface. His sushi is served plateless, on to the hinoki-wood counter, which is planed down after each meal until it is virgin again.
Sawada heaps rice straw on the charcoal burner, lights it and then passes a slab of bonito back and forth through the smoke. This is an ancient method, taken from the Tokyo Bay fishermen. When it’s sufficiently scorched he takes the fish to the counter and cuts two finger-sized slivers from it. Beside him is a basket of warm, vinegared rice, Sawada takes a breath. He shapes his fingers into a position known as ninjitsu – aping Ninja fighters – and begins the gentle, rhythmic hand-jive that makes the nigiri sushi.
His palms move from side to side under his bent head, shaping a mini-loaf of rice. He smears it with a fingertip of wasabi. Then he lays the curved strip of lean fish-flesh over it, as though fitting a delicate piece of marquetry. He places the mouthful, precisely angled, on the counter. This is nigiri sushi, the original, unchanged in 180 years.
I have to ask him what he thinks of ‘new sushi’ – California roll, for example. He repeats the Japanese translation – kashu-maki – as though it’s new to him. ‘California roll? I find it – chaotic.’