The Story of Sushi by Trevor Corson Read Free Book Online Page A

what is now Tokyo in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the people there preferred their sushi rice tart and tangy.
    After years of wartime deprivation during and after World War II, most Japanese developed more of a sweet tooth, and even Tokyo sushi became sweeter. But as prosperity returned, so did the preference for tart sushi. Nowadays, as you travel from Tokyo toward Kyoto, the sushi is sweeter and sweeter. When you reach Kyoto, the sushi rice is about three times sweeter than it is back in Tokyo.
    One of the most venerated Tokyo sushi chefs today, JirOno, ads almost no sugar to his sushi rice. The sugar, he says, makes people feel full too quickly, before they’ve had a chance to samplea sufficient variety of fish. Too much sugar can also overwhelm the delicate flavors of some of the best fish for sushi.
    In general, Tokyo sushi chefs take tartness seriously. Like a martial-arts dojo or a school of tea ceremony, each sushi bar follows techniques handed down from the founding masters of the lineage to which it belongs. The most closely guarded secret is usually the ratio of vinegar to salt in the sushi rice. It’s said that a master chef can tell the lineage of a sushi bar simply by tasting its rice.
    In the United States, sushi has Kyoto-style sweetness. Sushi chefs have noticed that when they add more sugar they get extra compliments. In a sense, the fundamental taste of sushi is no different from the fundamental taste of America’s other favorite Asian food. Chinese restaurants serve sweet-and-sour pork; sushi restaurants essentially serve sweet-and-sour rice.
     
    Takumi folded the sweet vinegar mix into the rice with a bamboo paddle. Zoran swooped in again.
    “Okay, okay,” Zoran said, “now, shari-kiri! ” Literally, it meant “cutting the Buddha’s bones.” Zoran motioned with his hand.
    Takumi nodded and sliced through the rice with the edge of the paddle, breaking up clumps. When he stopped to let the rice cool further, Zoran snatched up the paddle. He arched his body around the tub, grasping the edge with his free hand, and flipped patches of the cooling rice upside down with brisk twists of his wrist, circling the tub as he worked. That way the underside of the rice could cool and release excess moisture as well.
    Takumi wandered about the kitchen, a quizzical expression on his face. He couldn’t find the maroon can of magic white powder. He turned to Zoran.
    “Do you know where,” he asked in his broken English, “is Miora?”
    “You should have put it back where it belonged!” Zoran yelled, his back hunched over his work. “Get some sleep!”
    Zoran himself rarely slept more than four hours a night. He flew to a shelf and grabbed the can. “Is this what you were looking for?”
    Takumi half-nodded, half-bowed. “Thank you.”
    Takumi readied the second batch of rice for cooking and checked the clock. He packed the first batch of sushi rice into a couple of insulated canisters, laid damp kitchen towels over the rice, tightened the heavy lids, and lugged them to the front sushi bar. The second batch of rice would be used at the longer sushi bar in the back room. Most nights, Toshi opened only the sushi bar in the front dining room for business. On Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, he opened up the back sushi bar as well.
    When the second batch of rice had cooked, Takumi repeated the seasoning procedure, racing the clock. By the time he’d finished and washed the wooden tub, a wad of discarded rice had accumulated in the basket drain under the row of sinks. Takumi didn’t want to think about how many divinities lay there dying. He pulled on his chef jacket and hurried to the front dining room.
     
    The entire restaurant staff had convened for the daily staff meeting. Several of the chefs were Japanese. There was a Korean trainee. Next to Zoran stood a young white woman. Her name was Fie Kruse.
    Fie was a Danish supermodel and movie star. Or rather, Fie was not a Danish supermodel and