Sushi’s Will to Power

Once you decide on your occupation...you must immerse yourself in your work. You have to fall in love with your work. Never complain about your job. You must dedicate your life to mastering your skill. That's the secret of success...and is the key to being regarded honorably.

David Gelb’s Jiro Dreams of Sushi, was a movie that hung around on the edge of my consciousness for quite a while. I am not a great consumer of documentaries, but I kept hearing about this film, and, whenever I did, I was always informed how phenomenal it was.

I was recently able to watch it and I quite enjoyed it. Again, I am not a documentary-buff, and otherwise my ability to judge the technical quality of a film is limited, but I thought everything, the soundtrack, the cinematography (which I hope is a real word) and – most importantly – the story of the movie was excellent.

A quick summary for those who might need it: Jiro Ono is the owner and head chef of Sukiyabashi Jiro, a sushi restaurant in Tokyo. He mentions during the movie that he has been making sushi for 75 years. Currently his restaurant has achieved the highest international culinary honor: being awarded with three Michelin Stars. His youngest son started a spin-off restaurant in another Tokyo neighborhood and that establishment has earned another two Michelin Stars.

I found the most incredible aspect of the film, the restaurant and Jiro himself is the singular and central role of sushi. Both his restaurants have earned their acclaim while serving only sushi, which has created some controversy about how fair it is that, or even whether it should be possible for, a restaurant to serve only one type of dish and earn three Michelin Stars. Perhaps this speaks to the incredible quality of Jiro’s sushi.

Jiro himself is quite an engrossing character; especially interesting is his attitude towards his craft, which I feel is adequately summarized in the above quote. At this point in his career, Jiro is only involved in the final step of making sushi. His oldest son leads other restaurant apprentices in slicing, marinating and cooking (when necessary) the seafood and in cooking, seasoning and cooling the rice, with Jiro playing foreman: observing, advising and sometimes interjecting. But, when the customers arrive, Jiro takes the spotlight. While standing behind a counter, he chats with the guests while his hands perform what must be the most well-practiced motion ever performed by a human being. For what must be the billionth or trillionth time in his seven decade-long career, his hands pivot and press the fish and rice together, reach for a brush of soy sauce and then delicately place the finish masterwork on a plate.

Jiro’s greatness comes from this insane dedication, from this practice. Given that such greatness is so rare, it makes sense that such dedication and practice is nigh impossible to achieve. Imagine your favorite activity in the world. Now do it ten hours a day, nearly every day for the next seventy years of your life. Could you do that? Would you even attempt it? Not me.

Jiro’s dedication is compounded by what I found to be a cunning awareness of how active he is in focusing on his profession, how hard he has to try to stay dedicated. Jiro does not seem to be  the stereotypical stoic, focused on his task, his place in the world and how best to achieve “honor” (despite what he says in the included quote). He mentions that he was a bully in school, a rebel. During a visit to his parent’s gravesite, he wonders aloud why he came to pay his respects to his parents when “they never took care of [him].”

Jiro’s greatness, combined with his apparent intelligence and reflectiveness, reminds me of many of the quandaries posed by existential philosophers. That it is, essentially, impossible for man to reconcile many of the warm, fuzzy and meaning-filled social constructs with the cold, meaningless and unresponsive universe. In response to this absurdity, we bury our heads and do our best to ignore it.

I argue that all greatness, even Jiro’s, comes from insecurity, especially a fear of the eternal darkness that comes with death. Every ruler who set out to conquer the world, construct a monument in their honor has done so in an attempt achieve a level of immortality, delay the inevitable moment when, suddenly, everyone who knew you existed now forgets you were ever real.

Likewise all dedication finds it origins in a process of creating meaning. Human beings need meaning; they need purpose; they need answers to those big, unanswerable questions. Thus, they create (not discover) meaning through their actions. We all find something into which we can pour ourselves. Over time we hope we achieve some recognition; even the smallest will allows us to lie to our constantly questioning, constantly skeptical mind: “There, I have done it. Aren’t you satisfied yet?” Some, with low expectations or other delusions of reality, can quiet this part of their mind easily. Others, perhaps like Jiro, can never. They work until their death, constantly improving themselves and their craft, hoping that – one day, even for a single second – they find a way to satisfy the questions lurking in the shadowy alcoves of their mind.