Continued, Tokyo New Wave

“I want to give my customers my heart.” Hayato Takahashi and I pause, sitting in silence, allowing his response to my question, “Why do you cook?” to linger.

Takahashi is highly unusual—he is a restaurant of one. There is no sous chef, no wait staff, no sommelier, no dessert chef, no dishwasher. Takahashi is the restaurant Pellegrino. It is as if he hosts an intimate group of six at his home every night. His level of exactitude is both wondrous and inspiring, the purest expression of respect for the tradition, technique, and ingredients of Italy, particularly the city of Parma, where he lived and worked for one year.

I do not think there is a chef who cooks and runs a restaurant quite like Takahashi, making everything 100 percent from scratch and completely on his own. The dining room is the kitchen; each of the chairs at the three tables of two face him. The dining experience is entirely devoid of artifice or theatrics, forgoing the traditional restaurant structure and dynamic.

At Pellegrino, nothing comes between the diner and the food; this is deeply personal dining. Takahashi is remarkably attuned to every detail, even beyond the food itself. The evening’s music, for example, is selected with as much care as each ingredient. Every appliance—imported from Italy, of course—is out in the open for all to see. If you are looking for a flashy dining experience, this restaurant is not for you.

Takahashi is a gentle yet intense soul; when he speaks, he does so with an almost constant grin. His eyes dart around searching for his carefully chosen words as he admits that he likes things done just so.

Recounting his experiences working at Trattoria Le Viole near Parma, Takahashi lights up. He has an especially deep reverence for prosciutto and its place in Italian culture, equating it with sushi’s stature in Japan. A large red prosciutto slicer is the focal point at Pellegrino. Takahashi is a virtuoso as he attentively unwraps a whole prosciutto di Parma, preparing it for slicing. He is entirely engrossed in his task; I feel that if I were to speak, he wouldn’t hear me. Takahashi places the large leg on the Italian-made slicer and pushes the blade back and forth. All I can hear is the swishing sound of the blade cutting the prosciutto. Delicate slices fall into Takahashi’s left hand, and he gingerly places them, one at a time, on a white porcelain plate. The distinctive fragrance of prosciutto permeates the room. It is not until Takahashi offers me the plate that he awakens from his trance.

As we share memories of eating prosciutto in Italy, he describes his first taste as a revelation. It was “scrumptious,” he says with a mischievous grin. I mention how my grandfather enjoyed eating prosciutto with figs, and Takahashi meanders to his refrigerator without saying a word. He presents me with two deep red figs and carefully slices each one, half peeled, half not, offering both to me with slices of prosciutto. We stand together savoring these morsels of happiness and remembrance.

I spend hours with Takahashi at Pellegrino, high on his tenderness and talent. His dishes are the closest thing to the finest, authentic trattoria dining, short of a trip to Italy. He absorbed an extraordinary amount during his year working in Italy, a place where he left part of his heart.

I watch as Takahashi makes plump ravioli for his brodo, a broth with a touch of sherry that cooks for twelve hours. He offers me a spoonful, and as I savor the first drop, he says with his unabating grin, “I want to be a chef for the rest of my life.”

It was when I was in Auckland, New Zealand, that I decided I would become a chef. At first I was a dishwasher, but then I started doing more. I learned about vegetables and tempura and many of the other cooked dishes. I met my future wife there, and we came back to Shikoku together. I brought my résumé and walked from restaurant to restaurant handing it out. My plan was to work at an Italian restaurant! My boss in Auckland always said to me, “Italian food looks simple, but it is very hard to do well.” He also felt that there were many similarities between Japanese food and Italian food.

I wanted to go to Parma to learn to like prosciutto because it is so culturally important in Italy, and Italian restaurants in Japan do not generally serve good prosciutto. This was my first time in Italy. Emilia-Romagna is beautiful—the landscape, the houses, the terra-cotta colors. I loved it. When I saw this for the first time, I thought how Italian it all looked!

At my first meal in Emilia-Romagna at Le Viole, the chef served prosciutto di Parma with melon and Parmigiano-Reggiano, Lambrusco, and bread. It was a huge portion. This was lunchtime. I was amazed. It was beautiful. Awesome. Scrumptious. When I ate the prosciutto, my heart exploded. The quality was unbelievable—it was like nothing I had ever tasted before. Every day, I would ask the chef how to make cucina parmigiana. I wanted to learn Parma cuisine. I learned how to make chicken broth with Lambrusco, and pasta by hand like farfalle al ragù di Parma [chopped prosciutto, red and yellow peppers, basil, white wine, fresh tomato, salsiccia, Parmigiano]. I was so happy there.

It felt like my home. The chef taught me everything. Because I stayed in Parma the whole time, I know only this part of Italy well. I am Japanese, so I can’t learn about all Italian food. Most people seem to want general knowledge about many parts of Italy, but I specialized in Parma food. I realized I wanted to open a restaurant with Parma food that is also unique to me, with a bit of my influence, too. I could have stayed longer—my visa would have been extended. But I wanted to come back and open my own restaurant in Tokyo.

I remember my mother’s cooking in Niigata. She cooked a lot of Western, European things, but not much Italian food. She made pot-au-feu, buffalo wings, and pork chops with pineapple. I didn’t always like these things, but they were interesting.

When I was a teenager, I discovered I loved punk. I couldn’t play an instrument. I still like punk music, but really, I appreciate all music. My choice of music in the restaurant is very important. It changes the whole dining experience. I do not play punk music during service; I play minimal slow music, ambient music. My food is gentle but my concept is radical. So I don’t need to play punk music during service; it would overwhelm the dining experience. Punk music is strong and pure and not complicated or fancy, like I am.

I would like to meet Versus the World [an American punk band] and Plus/Minus [an American indietronica band], perhaps also Shutoku Mukai [a musician].

This dish is an earthy one, which beautifully expresses some of the most seminal elements of nature in the fall. The tender lamb pairs so well with the perfumed truffles and sweet eggplant, conveying the poignancy of Italian terroir.

2 small round eggplants (marunasu) or 1 globe eggplant, halved

Sea salt

1½ pounds Frenched lamb rack

1 tablespoon unsalted cultured butter

2 ounces fresh brown or black fall truffle

Heat a dry sauté pan over medium heat. Add the eggplants and sear until brown on both sides, about 5 minutes per side. Transfer to a baking dish and roast for 1 hour, until the eggplant is softened and most of the liquid has cooked out. Remove from the oven and let cool. Lower the oven heat to 325°F to cook the lamb.

When the eggplant is cool enough to handle, peel and put into a blender. Add a pinch of sea salt and puree for just a second until just blended.

Place the unseasoned rack of lamb in an ovenproof dry sauté pan or roasting pan, place in the oven, and roast for 6 minutes. Remove from the oven and let rest for 2 minutes. Flip the rack and roast for 5 minutes more. Remove from the oven and let rest again for 2 minutes.

In a dry frying pan, sear the rack of lamb over high heat, until browned on all sides, about 5 seconds per side. Immediately season with salt. Leaving the lamb juices in the pan, transfer the lamb to a platter and let rest.

Add the butter to the juices in the pan and cook over medium heat, stirring to combine, until the butter melts.

Place a big spoonful of eggplant puree in the center of a serving plate. Carve the lamb into ½-inch ribs and arrange on top of the eggplant. Spoon the lamb juices on top and shave the truffle over everything. Serve immediately.

When I think about what inspires me to create a dish, I honestly can’t think of any one single source. What I cook and what I create comes from a desire to express myself. My dishes come from personal experiences and life lessons, like living in Parma, paired with my desires and hopes for each dish. It is impossible for me to live life solely focused on cooking. The thoughts and different cultures around me affect me, subtly changing me each day.

2 tablespoons coarse sea salt

1 pound spaghetti, such as Martelli brand

1 vine-ripened tomato, cut into ½-inch cubes

5 teaspoons salted cultured butter

8 ounces uni (sea urchin)

In a pot, bring 3 quarts water and the sea salt to a boil. Add the spaghetti to the boiling water and cook about 6 minutes, until al dente.

Put the tomato and butter in a large bowl. When the pasta is ready, drain it and immediately add it to the bowl with the tomato. Add the uni and mix gently to incorporate the ingredients. Transfer to serving plates and serve immediately.