“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.
The other day, I visited Sendai
and spent time engaging with ingredients from Miyagi.
Early in the morning at the Sendai Central Wholesale Market,
tuna landed in Shiogama moved through auction, processing, and distribution.
Standing there, I was able to sense the atmosphere of that process firsthand.
Seeing how a single fish is handled,
and in what condition it reaches the kitchen,
offered a moment to reflect on how we engage with ingredients.
Markets, producers, and cooks.
Each plays a role, and their work quietly connects to one plate.
I take this experience in, calmly and thoughtfully.
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.