There are many things in my life that have moved me, perhaps because I’m deeply sensitive to gesture, to intention, to the emotion cooking can carry beyond the plate. But nothing struck me quite like my first omakase dinner in Tokyo, this past November.
It wasn’t an event, just an ordinary service, held within the natural silence created by the guests themselves.
Not an uncomfortable silence : a focused one.
What I love about sitting at a sushi counter is the serenity of movement.
Of course, I deeply admire the technical mastery of a sushi chef.
But even more, I admire the way they work without trying to prove anything : without seeking to impress and to perform.
The gesture is clean, precise, steady. It isn’t addressed to anyone in particular. It exists for the product, for the craft, and for the time it takes to do things properly.
Nothing pretentious, nothing flashy and yet, everything feels deeply intentional.
At the counter, differences quietly disappear. It no longer matters who sits next to you, what titles you carry, where you come from, or what you believe you are worth.
Sushi brings everyone back to the same place ; a form of humility in front of true skill.
Watching those hands at work, I was reminded of why I chose this path.
Not for recognition, not for spectacle, but for the beauty of a gesture done well.
For the discipline it requires.
For the calm confidence that comes from repetition, patience, and respect.
These moments don’t shout, they stay.
And they continue to shape the way I cook, the way I move in the kitchen, and the way I understand my craft, long after the last bite, long after the flavours have faded.
