DEDICATION

CRAFT

Years ago, on assignment in Nice, I came across a boucherie (butcher’s shop) with a rotating rotisserie displayed out front. It was filled with at least a dozen herb-covered chickens; the juice from the plump birds dripped onto glistening potatoes at the base. I carefully selected and then savored what was the most flavorful roasted chicken I had ever tasted. The scent of the rosemary, thyme, and garlic has long been imprinted in my memory, as has the tenderness of the chicken’s oysters. In the years since, no chicken has compared, until I discover the chicken served at Anis, here in Tokyo.

Chef Susumu Shimizu specializes in meats, game, and fowl, and his roasted chickens are on par with the very best in France. While his focus is literally any meat you could imagine—terrines of foie gras, and saucisse (sausage) included—he does not ignore vegetables, which are also integral to his cuisine. He learned much of his technique during his time in Paris, where he worked at L’Arpège with the legendary Alain Passard, and with famed butcher Hugo Desnoyer.

Shimizu is an artisan with a touch of doting grandfather—he is only thirty-nine but has the air of a caring and attentive relative who is keen to see you enjoy the meal he has prepared. He is deeply in love with his craft, his product, and the ritual of preparing a meal. From his open kitchen, he is eager to see me enjoy his food; a proud smile appears on his face when I acknowledge his gaze and nod in approval.

Anis is cozy and rustic, reminiscent of a country restaurant; the aroma of roasted meats wafts through the space. Shimizu works predominantly at a teppan (griddle), where he browns, cooks, braises, and breaks down his meats for hours on end. The chicken takes four to five hours, and is attentively turned from side to side to side; it never goes into the oven. His knife skills are impressive; Shimizu carves with unprecedented focus and surgical dexterity, pausing occasionally to wipe his hands on the towel thrown over his shoulder.

Once a month, Shimizu hosts specials dinners at Anis, called Meatings, endless courses of meats—beef, boar, venison, pork—for his regulars. I attend one of these gatherings during the Awa Odori dance festival, when colorful dance teams parade by his restaurant throughout the meal. With the din of the beating taiko drums and voices of the crowd outside, I watch Shimizu prepare his meats with tremendous focus. Completely engrossed, he pauses only briefly to ask in French: “Are you hungry?”

Why do you cook?

At first, I studied to become an engineer, but found that the life it would have given me would have been too predictable. I could see what I was going to become—everything was laid out in front of me. Food was much more mysterious and exciting, and I always loved to eat.

What motivates you?

I never talk about food or cooking, or think too hard about what motivates me. Anything in daily life can inspire me, a passerby, even the wind.

What or who inspired you to become a chef?

My father always liked to cook, which wasn’t typical at the time in Kyushu, where I grew up. Women cooked but men didn’t. So the fact that he cooked made it seem natural to cook myself.

What is your earliest food memory?

Celery and sausage soup on the weekends when I was about six years old. It was quite European and different than the food my mother made daily. It was simple yet luxurious to me and seemed fancy at the time. Celery is not a Japanese ingredient, so it was also exotic.

Who do you admire in the food world?

I admire Alain Passard. I cooked in his kitchen for two years and I was amazed by the way he cooks, so pure and natural, not rigid and superprecise as in some of the other three-star kitchens. While many chefs at the time were using foam and liquid nitrogen, trying to copy El Bulli, Passard was on the opposite end of the spectrum. He was doing simple and natural cooking in such a free way.

For you, what does it mean to be Japanese?

I don’t know. I don’t think that I am typically Japanese. When I lived in France, I did not miss Japan, but I did learn more about myself and others. I learned that in Europe it is more about oneself—that people, that chefs, are perhaps more focused on themselves. In Japan, we are like turnips. We go with everything in the kitchen—everything! We enhance the other ingredients, perhaps support them, but we don’t dominate the other ingredients. Same with people; we are used to thinking about others and what they need. We often put ourselves second.

The kitchens here in Japan are quiet. Teachers don’t say anything. When I was learning in a Japanese kitchen, the teacher said almost nothing. We were supposed to feel what we were to do. A lot of the learning is done in silence. You’ve noticed that the kitchens are quiet. It’s not like in Europe, where the kitchens can be loud and noisy. But I learned that I couldn’t be this way in France. I had to be more assertive in order to advance myself. I couldn’t stay quiet and say nothing, because then I would be thought of as a pushover. So I learned to talk more and express myself in Paris. And as soon as I did that, I became more international.

If you could share a meal with anyone, who would it be?

Really, I would just invite my grandmother, son, wife, and parents. Famous people don’t interest me at all.

What is your favorite word?

Shokunin [master artisan or craftsman].