Look at the cross section of simmered vegetables. The cross section is sharp. The flavor of the vegetable is altered by the way it is cut. Accent vegetables such as mitsuba (Japanese parsley), Edo mitsuba, and water celery should be aligned and cut to the same length, while udo (mountain asparagus), fuki (butterbur), and celery should be cut at a slight angle. Only bamboo shoots are cut into thin slices after cooking through to bring out the umami. By changing the “cutting flavor” of the vegetable, the way the flavor of each vegetable is perceived can be manipulated.

In Japanese there is term called 「きわ立つ」(kiwatatsu), which means to enhance or make stand out. The implication of the term kiwatatsu is the most important thing in Japanese cuisine. This is different from creating variation. Could you say that to create variation is the best way to convey one’s intention? That seems slightly contrived. However, when the objective is to kiwatatsu, then the intention can be clearly conveyed and received. In order for important things like pureness and cleanliness to be conveyed effectively those things need to be enhanced.

This not only applies to the plating of a dish, but to everything in the process of creating from the shape of the knife, the way an ingredient is stewed, cut, seasoned, or cooked. The understandable beauty that manifests with this practice is something I always aim to achieve.

When I was young, I once created a dish that was similar to foie gras of French cuisine. It was made by cooking the liver of a flounder with ginger to remove the bitterness, cooked egg passed through strainer and chicken fat. Of course, this was when I did not know how to make foie gras or how to make a veal stock. But surprisingly the result was something similar to foie gras.

At the time, I thought that making the most of ingredients simply meant making them taste good. I never really thought about what it meant to make the most of an ingredient, to really listen to the ingredient. Looking back now, I remember being convinced that if I stewed a sea bream that I was the creator of the dish, and it was mine. But what I didn’t realize was that the voice of the sea bream was drowned out.

In actuality the sea bream was overwhelmed by the sweet and spicy sauce. I realized I was just adding ingredients together and cooking it. But one day I wasn’t satisfied with this approach, I was tired of having the loudest voice. Instead I wanted the voice of the sea bream to also be heard. In this moment I created the dish “tai no tan tan,” and to this day the sea bream and I have a great mutual understanding.

Spring doesn’t just mean one thing. There is early spring, warm and cold spring, three cold days followed by four warm days, all of which gradually culminates into spring in full bloom. In the same way, despite good quality ingredients being delicious, they follow the same trajectory, early season, peak season, and late season, each with their own distinct flavors.

As the footsteps of spring’s arrival can be heard in the distance, the season of takenoko (bamboo shoots) begins. Beginning gradually with those picked in the cold early spring, bamboo shoots, which come into season in April, are perhaps the vegetable with the most vitality. All the power to grow a tall bamboo stock is concentrated in the bud of a small bamboo shoot.

It is safe to say that almost everyone loves bamboo shoots. They can be served as sashimi, grilled, stewed, etc. Other Asian countries also use bamboo shoots in their cuisine, but eating bamboo shoots without much manipulation to the ingredient is probably unique to Japan. I believe that the vitality one experiences followed by a slight bitterness when eating takenoko is one of the reasons the vegetable is so delicious.

Mitsuba (Japanese parsley) and shiitake, daikon ohitashi (simmered in broth). 20 years ago I made this dish just with daikon but strangely, I don’t remember how or why I created this dish. Traditionally in Japanese cuisine a lightly simmered daikon dish (daikon ohitashi) does not exist. If a daikon is cooked it is stewed, if it is raw the flavor of the broth doesn’t penetrate, if it is salted when raw it becomes like a quick pickle, but to lightly simmer daikon is not a common practice.

This version of daikon combines characteristics of stewed, quick pickled and raw daikon into one dish. The outer layer is penetrated with salt and soy sauce like stewed daikon, the middle layer has absorbed some salt and broth like a quick pickle, while the center retains the crunch of raw daikon. A chef can manipulate an ingredient by adjusting the heat level from 100 degrees to 0 degrees thus changing the texture and outcome of any ingredient.

In this way, the speed and time at which the flavors come together can be changed, and new dishes can be created. The three-millimeter daikon is the result of this flexibility.

June is the end of spring and the beginning of summer, and the overlap of delicious ingredients is abundant but the stand out ingredient in June has to be ayu (sweetfish). Skewered, freshly caught sweetfish, sprinkled with salt, and grilled, it has a bit of fat, but since the Japanese kanjis (characters) for ayu translate to "fragrant fish," the aroma, elegance, and bitterness is sublime.

Hamo (Japanese conger eel) is also used from June, and it served throughout the season. It lasts until the fall when it can be served with matsutake mushrooms. Sea bream is also a versatile ingredient, a fish with a strong character that can be used in many ways. But young ayu is different. There are fatty and luscious young ayu, but I strive to preserve the impression of the fresh ayu with a hint of bitterness and fragrance until we encounter them again the following summer. That is why Aoyagi only serves ayu in June even though the more mature varieties are available later in the summer.

As humans we only have one early season, one peak season, and one late season in our lifetime. With this in mind, the chef that encounters the ayu in early summer is compelled to deliver one’s best because of the transience of the ayu in front of them.

Sometimes we serve dishes that are common in Japanese homes and allow the guests to enjoy how a familiar dish can be so different in a restaurant. For example, when making cucumber suno-mono (with vinegar), the salt is removed, dashi (broth) and soy sauce are added, and finally finished with a squeeze of sudachi (Japanese citrus).

We enjoy hearing our guests say "Oh, this is so delicious,” for such a simple dish. This dish has to be made quickly, the more time it takes the more the cucumber loses its fragrance, and the longer it sits in the salt the more liquid is lost from the cucumber. A snapshot in time, so to speak. This dish only requires precision in timing, it is not something that can be made and kept to serve at any time.

I believe it may be a bit old-fashioned to use lots of ice to convey a feeling of coolness in contrast to the intense summer heat. Even though the summers are incredibly hot, we have air-conditioning everywhere nowadays so we don’t necessarily need ice to convey coolness. In turn, cucumber suno-mono is refreshing when it enters the mouth. While refreshing and coolness is of course different but the refreshing feeling in the mouth can translate to a feeling of coolness rather than deliberately making something cold.

The back room of the Tokushima main store has deep eaves, which allows the reflection of sunlight to reach into the room. This kind of atmosphere is hard to find in a city. Inside the room is cool, there is a sort of breeze even though it is hot outside, and we serve a perfect meal to nourish the body, tired from the summer sun. We also add a touch of summer to our menu, deep-frying anago (conger eel) tempura and making bōze sushi (a Tokushima delicacy made with Japanese butterfish) in front of our guests to showcase summer ingredients.

Most people associate tempura with shrimp, but I prefer anago. The batter needs to be thin, but a thin batter isn’t enough to make it tasty. When the crispiness of batter gets to a glass-like texture it becomes a work of art. We refer to this phenomenon as “the needle standing.” Thin needles of batter submerged deep into the hot oil transform into an exquisite crackling texture, this is paired with a light dipping sauce that gets trapped between the fine needles of batter. The umami of the anago is complimented by the toasty texture of the batter.

Autumn brings a bounty of seasonal ingredients and rustic plates like those made in Bizen that are more suited to the season. September is the best season for hamo (Japanese conger eel). Hamo season officially starts around June, and by September the tail end of the hamo season welcomes the beginning of autumn. This is a time when we can feel a sense of wistfulness as we move from summer to autumn cooking. Autumn is a season of abundance and fertility, a season that is reaching its peak, but also a season that is somehow also headed in a downward direction.

In the past, people would use the phrase “issun nijyu-yon” when referring to cutting eel. This means that in a 3.3cm width one would need to make 24 cuts into the eel, but if you are able to make between 19 to 21 cuts in that space, it is a sign of someone skillful at cutting eel. When I was young I could do about 21 cuts in 3.3 cm. After that I studied hard, practiced my craft, adjusted ever detail of how I moved and it took me 10 years to finally get to 24 cuts.

I believe that all legends handed down to us by our ancestors hold vital truths. The sea bream is filet with three strokes, and the hamo has 24 cuts. With daily study, effort, and devotion these skills can be achieved.

Have you heard of the matsutake mushroom front? In the spring we have the cherry blossom front, a phenomena where the trees start blooming from the southern warmer parts of the country first and gradually move north. For the matsutake it is the opposite. They are harvested first from the colder northern region and gradually moves south. They grow in the same areas as red pine trees, so the northern and southern limits are naturally determined. In October they are harvested in Kyoto and Tamba, and the southern limit for the matsutake is around Hiroshima.

Matsutake are delicious grilled or served with other seasonal ingredients like hamo (Japanese conger eel). But their versatility and spectacular qualities easily make them the star of any autumn menu, they can be had as sashimi, tempura, grilled, simmered, or cooked in rice. In other words, no matter what matsutake is paired with, it will always be the stand out part of the dish. The only other vegetable that can claim the spotlight like this is takenoko (bamboo shoot).

It wouldn’t be far fetched to say that the intoxicating aroma of the matsutake defines the autumn season. Aromas are vital part of Japanese cuisine and there is no other ingredient whose aroma captures a space merely with its presence. The brilliance of this mushroom is why Japanese people continue to be fascinated by it.

In the world of Japanese cuisine there is a saying, “katsushuhōjyu.” Many interpret this phrase to mean, “Cutting comes first and stewing follows.” But it actually means, “Cutting ingredients with intention allows for the stewing process to be executed properly.” It does not mean that sashimi is the most important.

There are many ways to stew food around the world; historically in Japanese cuisine the art stewing ingredients is a well honed craft. The kamado (traditional Japanese cook stove) plays an important role in these stewing techniques. The shape of the kamado pot and how the heat is distributed makes it the ideal vessel for slow-cooked stewed dishes.

In the stewing process it is important to create a convection environment. The bottom of traditional Japanese pots like the yukihiranabe or the hagama have rounded bottoms known as imogata. The rounded shape allows for heat to easily transfer to the brim of the pot meaning that the ingredients are being heated from both the bottom and the top. The rounded corners enable the liquid to circulate making the ingredients heat through evenly while enriching the flavor and concentrating the umami. In comparison, sautoir pans (pans with straight sides) commonly used in western cooking are not ideal for creating a convection environment in the pot.

Japan is known as Mizuho no kuni. Mizuho means young ears of rice, which makes Japan, "the land of rice”. Japan’s history of growing rice is so deep that it cannot be separated from the history of the country.

A tea ceremony meal usually begins with a small serving of rice, broth, and side dishes. The rice is served in a perfect state, and that perfection lasts just a moment. If it is left to release steam, the moment has already passed. Appreciating this rice is a way for the guests and the host to share a moment together, and it marks the beginning of the tea ceremony meal. I think this is wonderful. Of course, the other dishes should also be made to perfection, but to suspend everything and appreciate one mouthful of rice in unison is a way to be present together for an instant. I carry this feeling with me when I practice my culinary craft.

We, the craftsmen of culinary art work only with what lies between the sky and earth: rice, fire, water, and air. This embodies the peak of craftsmanship and intention. As executors of Japanese cuisine we feel compelled to share the culture we inherited with the world. If we are able to convey the elegance, luster, and umami of simple white rice to people around the world, then the we are one step closer to sharing what omotenashi (hospitality) means to us and our ancestors.