The Sushi Incident(s)
You don’t fuck with the blade of a master.
The knife is not only a tool for a sushi chef, but a gauge for excellence. I don’t mean you hiked into the mountains in Japan and found a wizened-bladesmith to which you indentured your first-born in exchange for the most “precious” of knives, and because you now have such an excellent tool, you’re suddenly a pro fish cutter. Although, that is the kind of the behavior that taught me about the intention of a sushi chef.
In 2006, my wife and I went to Aria in the Fairmont Hotel for what would be my first omakase sushi. We were both reluctant, me a Detroit-raised son from a blue-collar family whose only previous sushi experience was basically Kamehachi in Old Town or take-out and delivery maki from whatever was near the West Loop.
My wife was pregnant with our first born and thus her body was a temple for two which would not be besmirched with anything that wasn’t organically foraged from otherwise untouched natural forests. This was much different by the second child, whereby there may have been a glass of wine consumed during the third trimester. In case you’re wondering, the second child seems ok, great even. Though one never really knows until they reach their mid-forties.
No bologna, raw fish, or heroin would be consumed at this meal.
Or would they?
We knew that the Aria omakase was a mix of raw and cooked items, so we told the chef, Byung Kyu “BK” Park, of this predicament, figuring he’d just omit the uncooked stuff for my wife, maybe throw in a California roll, which, you know, in retrospect, LOL.
But, also to this day I am a huge surimi devotee. I’d come to the form as a child through a grocery store called Farmer Jacks that used to sell pre-made nachos curated like a backwoods Michigan-meets-Michelin amuse: individual corn tortilla triangles layered with a diamond-wedge of krab, a tri-colored blend of processed cheese, and a single pickled jalapeno.
This particular evening at Aria would not be krab night. BK responded that he’d be happy to accommodate the request. He also explained quite gently that his fish was sustainably sourced from Japan, i.e. not of the mercury-ridden Great Lakes variety, and that most Japanese women ate sushi regularly during their gestation without consequence.
Maybe this was the gateway to red wine later, but my wife and I agreed to try whatever BK threw our way.
At that time BK was coming off a recent stint at Mirai, a combination club/sushi lounge that in the early 2000s was as hot then as Warlord is now. This was the kind of place where monkfish-liver nigiri was swaddled in gold leaf and crowned with caviar. Though I wasn’t yet totally food obsessed like I am today, if I ever drove or walked by Mirai in those days, I felt compelled to make the sign of the cross or some gesture of respect like my devout Catholic father does every time he passes a church.
The sushi chefs at Mirai wore a uniform of a white waist coat, silk silver tie, and a boat-wedge-like cap that made them look like a natty cater-waiter had a brood with a diner cook.
Most of Chicago’s premier modern sushi omakase, save Kyoten, springs forth from the Mirai kitchen. In the early 2000s Macku (Komo) and Kaze Chan (Sushi-San) and BK all worked there. Their mentor and the executive chef was a guy named Jun Ichikawa would would go on to mentor Gene Kato (Momotaro, Itoko) at Japonais.
At Aria BK was trying to take things to the next level. We didn’t get these courses on our visit, and I don’t know if they were actually ever served, or it was just press-release bait, but BK had planned on serving horse mackerel “in a snow globe” and daily catch “in a conch shell” at Aria.
What I do remember of my Aria experience was BK’s intention. I’ve seen relentless focus a lot now but had never seen it like I saw it in BK outside of the cooks in the Alinea kitchen at that point in my writing career.
It was all wrist flicks and zinging blade movements. I’d believed mushy maki to be a standard before experiencing BKs distinct grains, some perfumed with a haunting honeysuckle-waft of Mirin.
Mid-meal at Aria, BK was called to the hot kitchen. Some loud guy next to me gestured to BK’s assistant and said, “What kind of knife is that? Can I see it?” The assistant raised it up slowly as if he were presenting the Holy Lance.
The sushi-douche started making more inquiries. “What brand? Are they rare? Where can I get one?” I suspect the dude assumed if he bought a knife like BK’s he’d be carving toro rosettes in his Gaggenau-appliance-laden-penthouse kitchen by tomorrow.
The assistant placed the knife back on the counter and started infusing truffle oil into soy sauce. BK returned. His determined stare was replaced with a scowl. He started whispering to the other chefs, “Who touched my knife?”