Continued, Tokyo New Wave

Thirty-six-year-old Daisuke Tsuji greets me in Italian with an exuberant smile and a two-handed handshake. He radiates a kindness that is unmistakable; you can’t help but like him. First things first, we discuss what he will cook for me. Would I like cacio e pepe, risotto alla milanese, tonno, or an arista (pork loin)? He leads me to his kitchen and I peruse the olive oils, cheeses, sea salts, and edible flowers. He removes a golden roasted pork loin from the oven, holding the pan before him like a proud father. He shares how he prepared and cooked it, before divulging more about himself; I sense that Tsuji does not speak of himself often.

Tsuji’s personal story is a poignant one that conveys his self-reliance and strength of conviction. He fell in love with Italy when he was in high school, just by looking at magazines and movies. Getting there became his primary goal, taking small jobs in Tokyo in order to save enough money to buy a ticket. He had no idea about food or becoming a chef; the only desire he had was to be in Italy. He had never left Japan before.

He succeeded and arrived in Siena, at age twenty, quickly enamored by his surroundings, the art, architecture, and warmth of the people. However, three or four months after his arrival, he ran out of money. Without work, he was homeless, sleeping outside on a bench. Despite these profound challenges that would have forced many to abandon their dreams, Tsuji was resolute to stay in Italy, no matter how difficult his daily life. This tenacity kept him on his path. Doors slowly opened. An acquaintance discovered he was living outdoors and offered him shared housing, and then soon after, a job in a kitchen.

Tsuji had never trained in the food world in Tokyo or anywhere before; his eyes were opened in Italy. He experienced a personal transformation and still savors this evolution, and the impact time abroad had on his life.

His personal journey—the discovery that he loved Italy, that he loved Italian food and made it well, and that he wanted to become a chef—culminated in the opening of his own restaurant, Convivio, here in Tokyo.

As Tsuji shares his seminal stories with me, he is calm and hushed, alternatively speaking Italian and Japanese. His body language changes as he does so, further revealing the two equally integral sides of his identity, beyond what mere words can convey.

I went to the Italian Cultural Institute to get information and learned about Siena. It is one of the safest places in Italy and is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, with beautiful scenery and beautiful streets lined with nice houses.

At first, I wanted to go to Italy just to live. I wanted to go there so much. I saw TV shows and magazines about Italy, Tuscany, and Milan, and it looked so beautiful to me. I worked at a gas station and at the back of a bakery packing bread to save money to be able to go to Italy. I didn’t yet know that I wanted to be a chef. Then when I made it to Siena, I used up all my money so quickly that I had to live outside and sleep on a bench.

Luckily, I met a Japanese chef who wanted to return to Japan and was looking for someone to take his place. But I didn’t have any experience. So I worked with him for three months and began to learn about cooking. He cooked Tuscan food. I didn’t really have any idea of what it was or what I wanted to be. I just really wanted to stay in Italy. I liked the way I felt in Italy. It is not as precise as Japan is—it’s more disorganized but also more spontaneous. I knew that I did not want a predictable life.

At first, I worked to survive. Living in Italy, I became stronger. I didn’t panic easily. I am more expressive now. I used to be much more quiet and timid. Living in Italy changed everything about me.

Antica Trattoria La Torre in Castellina, in the Chianti region. I worked there for two years. This restaurant is 125 years old. Friends of friends mentioned it to me for the first time; it is famous for its meats and traditional Tuscan cuisine. There were five grandmothers who worked there. I learned a lot from them, including Italian history. They told me so many stories.

Dried daikon for kiriboshi daikon made by my mom, growing up in Kyoto. I remember the smell and taste. I liked how it tasted. She wasn’t a great cook, but she prepared things with a lot of love.

Chef Gualtiero Marchesi, the first chef to be awarded three Michelin stars in Italy.

How do you think growing up in Japan makes you different from a native Italian chef?

I think it’s difficult for Japanese to create something from scratch; instead, I think we are good at improving upon other things that others have already made.

The polytheistic culture. We have many gods in Tokyo. This is really Japanese: we pray for the sunrise, we pray for sunset, we pray for and appreciate water. It is easy to feel all the seasons in Japan.

I would like to eat with members of Shinsengumi, a special police force in Kyoto organized by the military government during Japan’s Bakumatsu period from 1864 to 1869.

Autism. Convivio organized and did a collaboration dinner for Autism Awareness Day. I would like to do more for this cause. I would like to help people more through my food. I think it is important to connect to people and build relationships through my food.

Life Is Beautiful, I saw it on TV right before going to Italy, and it helped me to learn Italian.

I am often inspired by ingredients, but this time I was inspired by a plate. My Aritayaki ceramic plate strongly conveys an image of the blue sea. Although it is said that using a blue color in a restaurant decreases the appetite, I very much wanted a plate that made me think of the sea. I created my version of saffron risotto, which is famous in northern Italy, where I trained. I added abalone and abalone stock. While eating this dish, I would like diners to taste, see, and feel the sea.

1 young abalone in the shell, about 4 inches wide

Sea salt

1 quart bottled water, plus more as needed

2 tablespoons sake

1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil

1 small shallot, minced

¼ cup carnaroli rice

1 tablespoon white wine

10 saffron strands

3 tablespoons grated Grana Padano cheese

2 teaspoons unsalted butter

2 green beans, blanched and sliced ¼ inch thick, or 10 fresh peas, according to preference

Perilla leaves or Hojiso perilla flowers, for garnish if available

Lightly sprinkle the abalone meat, still in the shell, with salt. Leave for about 20 minutes at room temperature to draw out some of the dirty water from the abalone. Wash under the faucet to further remove any debris.

Place the water and sake in a saucepan and bring to a gentle boil over low heat. Add the abalone, still in the shell, and cook for 1½ to 2 hours, until the abalone about as soft as the tip of your nose. If the water starts to completely evaporate, add some more. Transfer the abalone and cooking liquid to a bowl, let cool, then refrigerate overnight. There should be just under 1 cup of abalone stock.

The next day, remove the abalone from the shell with a spoon or spatula. It should separate easily, leaving the guts behind on the shell. Use a meat knife to cut the meat into ¼-inch cubes. Strain the stock through a fine-mesh sieve into a small saucepan and reheat until very hot. Keep on low.

In another pot, heat the olive oil and shallot in a pot over low heat for 1 minute, just to bring out the aromas. Add the rice and cook, stirring, just until toasted a bit, about 1 minute. Add the white wine and keep stirring until it is mostly absorbed, about 15 seconds. Add the saffron and stir into the rice. Continuing to stir, add some abalone stock, a little at a time, until each addition is absorbed, the risotto is creamy, and the grains of rice are soft on the outside but still al dente on the inside.

Add the Grana Padano, butter, and 1 teaspoon salt and stir until the butter and cheese melt and evenly coat the rice. Stir in most of the abalone and green beans, saving a few pieces of each for garnish, and season with salt if needed.

To serve, spoon the risotto onto bright blue plates, if you have them, and top with the reserved abalone and green bean pieces for decoration. Garnish with the perilla.