Over time, I brought everyone I knew to Sukeroku, and they all loved the food—and the chef. Sato has a talent for making everyone feel like a special customer, and Suke-roku's sushi wouldn't have tasted nearly as good served by someone else. "Raw fish is raw fish. The essential ingredient for good sushi, besides rice and fish, is love," he told me once, only half in jest. "You must have good feelings for your customers or nothing will taste right."
Good feelings he had in spades. If anything readily distinguished Sukeroku from the countless other high-quality sushi-ya in Tokyo, it was Sato's heartfelt interest in people, plus a formidable memory for the details of his customers' lives and culinary preferences.
I eventually left my job (to the immense delight of everyone concerned) and then, in 1995, Japan. But on annual visits to Tokyo, I have only to slide open Sukeroku's door and Sato throws a generous slice of anago (my favorite) on the grill as we pick up our conversation exactly where we left off a year before. "You always make your job seem easy and fun," I remarked on a visit last spring, a comment that earned a scowl and a raised eyebrow—Sato had just opened a second Sukeroku. As if to set me straight, he asked me if I'd like to tag along with him for a day to see what a sushi chef's life is really like. I jumped at the chance.
In order to maintain good relationships with his vendors, Sato has always done the fish buying himself—six early mornings a week for the past 18 years. In a normal month, he spends upward of 3 million yen (about $25,000) at Tsukiji. Now, with a second shop, that amount will rise. While I sip a scalding can of green tea from a vending machine and try to stay out of the way, carts arrive and close circle like a wagon train around Sato's three-wheeled motor scooter. Combining the skills of an acrobat and an architect, he stacks the Styrofoam boxes packed with ice and fish onto the back of the scooter, forming a tall pyramid, and off he roars.
By nine, we're back at Sukeroku (I walked). The stools are up on the hinoki (cypress) bar, and the floor has been washed. Like Sato, his three young apprentices are dressed all in white, short hair tucked under their caps, hands jewelry-free and scrubbed. Posted on the kitchen wall is a reminder to be polite, friendly, neat and clean in appearance. "This shop exists because we have customers," it exhorts.
This morning, though, I'm not a customer. And Sato has no time to be entertaining. He unpacks, and they all start cleaning and cutting the fish in silence. Lunchtime is only two hours away. Besides, the kitchen is so small that concentration, and attention to the sharp knives, are essential.
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