TCVB | Tokyo Docs: Sushi

The Job

the project

Project

Tokyo Past
& Present — Matsunozushi

Client

Tokyo Convention &
Visitors Bureau

Agency

Zeroin / DeepJapan

Production

SET K.K.

Location

Toyosu, Ginza &
Matsunozushi, Omori

Series

one of four films on Tokyo culture

Year

2021

the film

The Subject

Yoshi Tezuka, the fourth generation behind the counter at Matsunozushi.

The Format

just under five minutes of English voice-over, in Tezuka’s own words. No presenter, no interviewer on camera.

the brief

The Audience

attendees at MICE events. Insiders who know Tokyo well and expect a deeper dive into the culture.

the ask

identify a story that is authentic to sushi culture in Tokyo but also speaks to the wider identity of Tokyo as an Alpha City.

the shoot

two days to cover the labyrinth alleys of Toyosu fish market, the high-end shopping district of Ginza and the prep and dinner service at Matsunozushi.

Production Diary

No matter where you go in the world, you’re bound to meet a local who boasts that their corner of paradise, the crafts they make, the food they serve, the culture they live in, is unique, found nowhere else.

In a world where pretty much anything can be delivered the next day with Amazon Prime, Pinterest-fueled algorithms have led to coffee shops in the backstreets of Bangkok that look indistinguishable from those in Seattle, and just about everything you could possibly want to learn has a tutorial on YouTube, how true can this possibly be? A hundred years ago, when it took months to travel from Tokyo to Washington, D.C., and when you couldn’t pick up a phone and call internationally without sacrificing your kid’s college fund, you could argue that some services and goods simply couldn’t be enjoyed outside small, specific places.

There are very few things, ideas, or techniques that don’t travel. In fact, I can’t think of a single one. So does that mean local specialties are no longer local? And if they’re so good that people want to enjoy them all the time, does that mean they aren’t actually that special either?

Several years ago I had the chance to shoot four short documentaries for the Tokyo Convention & Visitors Bureau about the culture of Tokyo. One of the topics was sushi, specifically Edo-mae sushi. Edo is the old name for Tokyo, used until the Meiji Restoration in 1868, and mae means “in front of” — in other words, sushi from the sea in front of Tokyo. Today it’s hard to believe that anyone would want to eat fresh fish out of Tokyo Bay, though it does happen.

But not that long ago, before the rapid industrialization of the waterfront, vibrant aquatic ecosystems ringed the bay. People would wade out at low tide to gather shellfish, and they would catch fresh fish in the tranquil waters, including eel, mackerel and sea bass. Today, to get those kinds of delicacies you have to go to a grocery store, or, if you’re the owner of a high-end restaurant, you might even go to Toyosu fish market. The reason there are so many high-end sushi restaurants in the Ginza area is its close proximity to Toyosu and, before that, Tsukiji. You could walk between Ginza and Tsukiji, and today it’s still common to see delivery trucks zipping across the newly constructed bridges between east Tokyo and Toyosu early in the morning.

The subject of the documentary is Yoshi Tezuka, the fourth-generation head chef of Matsunozushi. The central question we set out to answer in the film was, “What is Edo-mae sushi, and what makes it different from other styles of sushi?” The cynic in me was really asking, “What’s your line when someone asks you what is Edo-mae sushi?”

The answer was not at all what I was expecting and in the intervening years has become a useful point of context for understanding what makes many different industries in Japan unique. In other words, I was served some humble sushi.

Tezuka first took us to Toyosu, where we visited narrow shop stalls packed tightly together in a cavernous grid of wholesalers. Despite the market building at Toyosu being only a few years old, it still feels remarkably old school. The floor is perpetually wet, piles of styrofoam boxes create walls that seem to shift from moment to moment, and “taru,” barrel-shaped vehicles, whip around blind corners at speeds that keep you checking both ways before crossing a pathway.

Despite being more than busy enough with his duties at the restaurant, Tezuka still makes occasional trips to Toyosu to meet directly with his suppliers. He wants to hear from them firsthand about the season and changes in the catch, ask about any hidden gems, but most importantly, show face. Personal relationships are important for restaurateurs to ensure they get not only the best fish available, but that they get the best fish for Matsunozushi’s customers. By showing face, Tezuka shows the wholesalers that he is personally invested in making sure this happens without compromise. But it’s also an admission that Tezuka knows the wholesalers invest personally in their own supply chain, from the fishermen, to the auctioneers to the people that make the packing ice to maintain quality, flexibility and first dibs. If you really dig into the details, a dizzying number of people and connections contribute to ensuring that quality fish is caught, transported, identified and handled before it reaches the restaurant. And then it has to be prepared well! Tezuka’s extra effort in his relationships at Toyosu is a way of communicating both that he wants the best of the best and that he values the extra care necessary from all parties to actually get it.

Back at the restaurant, the staff begins sorting and preparing Tezuka’s purchases for dinner. Most days the restaurant gets its delivery directly from Toyosu after Tezuka calls the wholesalers early in the morning to place an order. The orders are based on the guests coming that evening. Matsunozushi is reservation only, not because it’s exclusive but because it’s necessary to tailor the menu for each customer. Like many high-end sushi restaurants, Matsunozushi is omakase only — chef’s discretion. This doesn’t mean you get whatever the chef likes; it means you get the best of what’s available, tailored to your tastes, curated by the chef.

The phone rings and Tezuka answers. He often takes reservations himself. Immediately he starts leafing through a worn notebook held together by a thick rubber band. It’s a list of every customer who has ever made a reservation, even one-time customers, and what they ate. If it’s a repeat customer, Tezuka finds their entry and sees what they had last time. He asks if it’s a special occasion and makes suggestions based on what’s in season and what he knows about the customer. A quick mental calculation and Tezuka is ready to add to the next day’s order. The fact that it’s Tezuka answering is part of the omakase experience. Not only will he be the one to choose your menu for you, but he’ll be the one to prepare it and serve it to you along with the unique story of each dish: Is the tuna in season or is it slightly out of season meaning it’s fattier? Where exactly does the eel come from and why does that make a difference? These details are all part of the omakase experience and something that regulars look forward to almost as much as the food itself.

Because of the dedication to tailoring each experience, some restaurants, especially ones in Kyoto, are famous for their introduction-only policies. That means you can’t just cold-call and expect to get a reservation; you need to go with a regular first, at least once. It’s a way to ease into the customer-restaurant relationship and a way to ensure that they are a good fit. It’s like having a friend introduce you to someone who they’re just sure you’ll get along with. Exclusive inns in Kyoto don’t want noisy businessmen who are going to pick around their specialties; they want people who are going to fully appreciate the atmosphere and the food.

But at Matsunozushi there is no such rule. Anyone is welcome, and yet there is still a high bar for personalization. I ask Tezuka what he does if it’s a first-time customer. He says there’s no one-size-fits-all solution, but usually he jumps on social media after a call and looks them up. He sees what other sushi restaurants they’ve been to and even what other kinds of foods they like. He judges how experienced their palate is and makes a judgment call about what sushi they will enjoy most.

By the time the customer arrives, literally days of work and a massive supply chain has been harnessed in order to ensure that a personalized menu is ready. Chef’s discretion, based on an entire team of specialists, each with their own experience and unique connections.

It struck me that none of this process felt unique to Tokyo. The fish don’t come from Tokyo Bay, the techniques used to prepare the fish were more unique to Tezuka than to Tokyo, and the customers are from all over the world. So what exactly does Matsunozushi serve that makes it uniquely Edo-mae sushi?

Tezuka told me the story of when he was offered the opportunity to take his father’s business abroad to Singapore. It would have meant significant financial success and the prestige of being an international brand. He seriously considered the offer but ultimately turned it down. The reason wasn’t that he couldn’t replicate the dining experience, the recipes and the techniques in Singapore or even New York or London for that matter. He could maybe even source some fish more easily in other parts of the world. But even with all of these challenges addressed, it still wouldn’t be Edo-mae sushi.

Tezuka had been dropping hints along the way. Edo-mae sushi is more than the food itself. It’s the customers. It’s their appreciation of the subtle differences between sea bream caught at the peak of its season and sea bream caught one week after. It’s the joy that comes from revisiting the same tastes and textures you first encountered in childhood. It’s knowing the difference between shrimp caught in Nagasaki and shrimp caught in Fukuoka. It’s the cultural context, experience, personal history and generational memory that create a narrative around each and every dish. Like the Japanese saying ichigo ichie — each encounter is singular, never to be repeated — each meal at Matsunozushi is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, best appreciated through a lifetime of experience. Which begs the question, if you’re not part of this ecosystem, can you ever really eat Edo-mae sushi? I personally feel, and I think Tezuka would agree, that the desire to participate in the culture of Edo-mae sushi, the effort to treat each meal like a chapter in a long novel instead of a bucket list item to be checked off, makes it possible.

If you go for one meal and that’s it, you’re just eating sushi. But if you keep going back again and again, conscious that each time will be different depending on the season and even the conditions from year to year, and you look forward to reflecting on and enjoying those differences then yes, you’re eating Edo-mae sushi.