The Art of Cutting to Connect

It’s Friday morning at our warehouse. After a week of sushi classes and catering events, we have some leftover tuna, cured steelhead, and Tai red bream. Like chopping vegetables for a dish, small bits and pieces of fish remain after every event. I usually encourage our staff and clients to take them home, and most do—gratefully. Yet, some always remain.

I look at what’s left, thinking of how to use them.

I grab a few pieces and pack them in a small container along with the leftover sushi rice to take home. Then, I decide to make a simple chirashi—a scattered sushi bowl. I warm up the rice for a minute in the microwave, just enough to release the subtle aroma of rice vinegar, then arrange the sliced fish on top. A few slices of avocado, a bit of ginger, a touch of wasabi. In minutes, I have sushi.

I walk over to the building manager.

“Here you go.”

His eyes light up.

“OMG, you made my day!” he exclaims. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

A Simple but Perfect Meal

At home, I prepare another chirashi bowl. I take out a large donburi, a ceramic bowl meant for rice dishes, and pour in the warm sushi rice. I add slices of bigeye tuna, cured steelhead, kanpachi, East Coast scallops, shrimp, and a spoonful each of sturgeon caviar and ikura (salmon roe). I slice an avocado and place it neatly over the fish, adding a wedge of lemon for balance. In just five minutes, chirashi for two is done.

While preparing the bowls, I have miso soup simmering on the stove. Using instant dashi stock with our fresh spring water, I heat up a small pot with asparagus, finishing it with an egg drop for a velvety texture. The perfect companion to our chirashi.

We sit at the dining table and put our hands together.

“Itadakimasu.”

We reflect, as we sometimes do, on the days when we had only $5 in our wallets, carefully choosing what to eat for dinner. Back then, a three-item combo meal in Chinatown was $4.25—just enough to share. I’d walk from our small North Beach apartment to the restaurant, bringing home a meal that, despite its simplicity, felt satisfying.

Now, we’re lucky not to have to worry about whether we can afford dinner. We owe it all to our clients—the people who support what we do. Tonight, as we eat this chirashi made from the week’s leftover fish, we feel nothing but gratitude.

“OMG, this is delicious!” my wife says.

“OMG, it is,” I respond.

As strange as it may sound, I think my sushi tastes really good. I truly enjoy what I make—not out of ego, but from a deep appreciation for the craft, the ingredients, and the moment we share.

A Request That Means Everything

A week later, there’s a knock on the warehouse door. It’s the building manager.

“Kaz, umm… I have a favor to ask.”

“Sure, what is it?”

He hesitates for a second, then says, “Well, the next time you have extra sushi or fish… can I buy it from you?”

I smile. “If I have extra, I’ll just bring it to you.”

“No, no, no—I want to pay.” He looks at me, serious. “I’ve had sushi from different places around here, and nothing compares to yours.”

His words catch me off guard. For a moment, I am speechless.

It’s the modest side of being Japanese coming out. Instead of simply saying, “Thank you, I appreciate that,” my automatic response is hesitation. Moments like this remind me of what Jerry Seinfeld once said:

“We're embarrassed about things we should be proud of, and proud of things we should be embarrassed about.”

I wouldn’t say I’m embarrassed about how great my sushi tastes. It’s more that I instinctively think, “What would others think if I sound like I’m bragging even when I don’t mean to?” But Seinfeld’s words remind me to own it. I know what I did. I know how my sushi tastes. I am the person who made it. There’s nothing wrong with that. Just own it, I tell myself.

Then, I remember what sushi is really about.

It’s not about me. It’s not really about what I did. Ultimately, it’s about the simple joy of sharing something special, the moment of connection it creates. If my sushi makes someone’s day, then why hesitate to accept their appreciation?

“Oh gee, thanks,” I finally respond. “But don’t worry about paying. I’ll let you know the next time we have extra. In fact, we have some events next week, so I’ll be sure to bring you something.”

He nods, smiling. “That would be amazing.”

More Than Just Sushi

Exchanges like this happen more often than I expect. After every event—whether in a venue, an office, or a private home—there’s always leftover sushi. And every time we give it away, the reaction is the same: surprise, delight, gratitude.

It never gets old.

Hearing people say, “This is the best sushi I’ve ever had,” reminds me how lucky I am. Not because it boosts my ego, but because I get to bring joy to others through something as simple as sushi.

This is more than just food. More than just a craft. More than just a business.

Sushi connects people in a way I never expected. That is the true gift I receive every time I lead the class, or host a catering event. 

I think it’s interesting that when making sushi, the preparation is all about “cutting.” Cutting fish, cutting vegetables, and even making sushi rice is called “cutting” in Japanese. The result is the piece of sushi that has been cut, or you can say “disconnected.” That is what I offer and that is what my guests eat. So, metaphorically speaking, I have to disconnect before make the connection. That to be is fascinating, doing the opposite of what I should be doing first.

And that is maybe why in that connection, there are no boundaries. No limits. I can keep cutting and disconnecting. Just shared joy, one bite at a time.