In January, during an event held at Nijikichi,
I had the opportunity to work directly with fish from their place of origin.
Harvested in the waters of Imabari, Ehime,
carefully dispatched and temperature-controlled,
these fish carried a tension that could be felt through the knife.
The firmness of the flesh.
The clean fibers that release no excess moisture.
The honest response to heat.
This goes beyond mere “freshness.”
It reflects the accumulated work of sea and people.
While fish from other countries have their own beauty,
I was once again reminded of the unique potential
nurtured by Japanese waters.
To stand in the field,
to handle the fish firsthand—
is to quietly renew oneself as a chef.
“Grilling the difference is also a way of renewing oneself.”
Last week, I had the opportunity to take part in an event hosted by
Ebisu Endo × Ebisu by Kobos in Madrid.
On that occasion,
I grilled Japanese eel and European eel side by side over charcoal.
The European eel was farm-raised—
the very kind I had studied during my visit to Spain.
The other was a type I am more accustomed to working with.
Different species mean different structures—
bone composition, skin thickness, fat quality.
Even though both are called “eel,”
they respond to fire in completely different ways.
This time, the environment was also different from Japan—
the air, humidity, grill structure, and the charcoal itself.
Unlike the binchotan I usually use,
the character of the fire—its rise and stability—was subtly different.
How the fat renders.
How the skin tightens.
The exact moment to turn.
The same heat does not produce the same result.
It was technically demanding,
yet deeply educational.
Observing eel farming facilities in Spain—
the management of water temperature, circulation, and density—
as well as seeing wild eel being air-dried by the water,
added further perspective.
To understand the species.
To understand the water.
To understand the environment.
Cooking begins long before standing in front of the fire.
Grilling the difference is also a way of renewing oneself.
That renewal will quietly be reflected in the next plate.
After taking part in an event in Oslo
between Ebisu Endo and Sabi Omakase,
I traveled north to Tromsø
and went out to sea with Fujimoto-san,
a fisherman from Ehime.
We fished, handled the catch,
processed it on the spot, and tasted it ourselves.
The cold water, strong currents,
the texture of the flesh, the quality of the fat.
Some things felt familiar —
others entirely different from Japan.
Ingredients cannot be fully understood
from the kitchen alone.
You have to stand at the source
and go out to sea.
This journey, too,
was an essential part of how we face our cuisine.
Traveling abroad is not only about showcasing cuisine.
It is about eating, drinking,
and immersing oneself in the rhythm of an unfamiliar place —
the energy of a restaurant,
the quiet of a city at night,
the culture reflected beyond the glass.
Working behind the scenes,
supporting rather than leading,
sharpens a chef’s senses in a different way.
A glass of wine tasted far from home,
the air drifting through a harbor at night —
they do not become dishes immediately.
But they are carried back, quietly,
into the kitchen in Japan.
To know the world
is to understand one’s own position within it.
This journey is part of that process.