I like sushi restaurants. It's not like the recent fad of hard-to-get-reservations or pretentious courses, but rather you just drop in and let the familiar chef make the sushi for you. I kind of admire the idea of being knowledgeable about sushi and sake, but if I'm not careful, I might end up drinking a whole sho of sake by myself, and I never seem to remember any of the trivia about fish or sake that the chef tells me. This sake can be enjoyed either hot or cold and is made with young fish of ``something'' from ``somewhere'' that are in season now ``etc.'' As soon as I hear it, I forget everything. As a result, all that remains is the feeling that "It's delicious and I'm happy." Every time this happens, I become envious of the job of a sushi chef. Using seasonal ingredients only available at the moment, the chefs use their skills to create a masterpiece for the customers who are eagerly awaiting it. The work reaches a moving conclusion the moment it reaches the customer's stomach. I'm impressed by its honesty. It's like watching an entertainment stage. In comparison, furniture making has a completely different time scale. The timber needs to rest for years before it can be used, and then it takes many months to make the furniture. "The speed at which you reach the excitement of making furniture is a little frustrating. And there's always responsibility even after it's finished," I told the chef. "No, no. I'm actually more envious of those who have pieces that remain. Furniture can remain for 100 years into the future, right? It's romantic! If you eat this, not even a trace of it will remain." "Well, yeah. But it's cool because it feels like a live performance at a sushi restaurant." It's just craftsmen asking for what they don't have. "Well, this is the only thing someone like me can do to make people happy," said the chef. Me too. I don't care if this job is right for me or not. There are people who look forward to my work and colleagues who need it. There is nothing more luxurious than that. With my head clouded, I once again become aware of obvious things. "Thank you for the meal." "Okay. That's nice of you!" The curtain fell again today with the boss's spirited catchphrase. Sushi restaurant I love going to a Sushi restaurant. Not the posh ones with the full course where reservations are hard to make, but the one I always drop in and ask the master for Omakase menus. It might be cool to have a detailed knowledge of Sushi and Sake, but sometimes I drink as much as 1.8L of Sake by myself, and the master's detailed talk about fish and sake easily escapes me. He talks about how this particular Sake is good chilled or at room temperature. Or this is a fry of a seasonal fish, and so on. Everything goes in one ear and out the other. But the feeling that ' This is delicious, and I'm really happy' remains. And every time I feel like this, I feel envious of the Sushi master. Using only the seasonal ingredients, he makes sushi in front of awaiting customers, and when that piece of art fills their stomach, it concludes with a rapt. That simplicity fascinates me. It's almost like watching an entertainment show. Compared to that, the time it takes for furniture making is totally different. Drying the wood material may take couple of years, and we need many months to finish the piece. "I feel a little frustrated that in furniture making, it takes so much time before we see the happy faces of customers. Also, our responsibility for those pieces continues as long as ever. But the master says "Well, I envy you because your piece of art remains, even after 100 years. Sushi disappears completely when eaten" " I know. But Sushi restaurant is like doing a live show, and is so cool" Matsuoka replies. We are two masters both wanting something we don't have. But then the master says, "Making sushi is the only thing I could bring joy to people" That goes for me too. It doesn't matter if this is the right work for me or not. There are people looking forward to my work, and colleagues that need me. That is the most rewarding thing of all. I realize that obvious thought with a blurred mind. "Thank you for the sushi." "OK. Check for him!" His usual cliché echoes in the shop, and my night ends.
