Trickle-Down Gastronomy: Japan
How Japan solved the problem that Western dining is only now discovering
In Parts I and II, I argued that culinary history is an economic story of crisis and response, as most economic stories are. More specifically, that chefs emerge when something upstream of dining breaks, whether it’s supply chains, labor markets, institutions, or meaning; and that their real job is to diagnose and repair whatever the prevailing economic system has become most broken about eating.
I traced this pattern of culinary history through feudal banquets, Escoffier’s industrial kitchen, postwar austerity, nouvelle cuisine, molecular gastronomy, and the current Western exhaustion with Michelin (which is very, very real). And I ended Part II with the claim that the current structural problem is existential: we have more food options than any civilization in history, everything tastes good, and the thing that’s broken is meaning itself.
(Apologies to the people who told me this was the most depressing thing they had ever read).
So now, Japan. Because the Japanese food system has been solving this exact problem, of how to create meaning under abundance for centuries. And the way it got there illuminates everything about where Western dining is headed next, which is really what I want to figure out!
How Japan Got Here
Meaning First
The Western culinary arc I traced in Parts I and II followed a consistent pattern that a structural crisis appears, and that a chef responds. The solution to the crisis is what creates new institutions, which will eventually calcify, break, and produce the next crisis. The whole history is a sequence of being broken and being fixed, much like our “regular” economy.
Interesting, however, Japan’s culinary history does not follow this pattern.
Because where the Western arc is defined by breaks, the Japanese arc is defined by continuity, and this difference is genuinely structural. It is the reason the two systems produce such different relationships between food and meaning; a difference that is so enormous that even someone without an interest in the culinary economy will feel it after a day or two in Tokyo!
Ok so let’s start with the origin point:
The Western restaurant emerged from urbanization; as industrialization pulled people into cities, household kitchens shrank, and a new institution was needed to solve an entirely practical problem: how do you feed a rapidly growing population of urban strangers, reliably, outside the home? The restaurant answered this question. And as I discussed in Part I, the restaurant immediately created a second-order problem (that of coordination) which Escoffier’s brigade system then solved by industrializing the kitchen.
Now consider that Japan’s high culinary tradition emerged from a completely different place. Kaiseki, the formal multi-course cuisine that sits at the top of Japan’s culinary hierarchy, grew out of the tea ceremony, which is itself a ritual technology for producing attention and presence. The tea ceremony was not trying to solve a logistics problem, it was trying to solve a spiritual one: how do you create a bounded space in which every gesture, every object, every flavor is saturated with deliberate meaning?
The “meal” which ensued was an extension of that project. As in, food existed in service of consciousness! Not the other way around; whereby in the West we have tried endlessly to retrofit consciousness onto food.
This means that Japan’s culinary tradition began from meaning and worked backward toward formal techniques, while the West began from logistics and has spent four centuries slowly arriving at meaning. The two systems are converging on the same point, but from opposite directions, and… clearly, Japan got there first!
The Shokunin
The figure who embodies this tradition is the shokunin, the master craftsman, who is the Japanese counterpart to the Western chef-celebrity. And actually, you could probably say that the shokunin is very nearly the inversion of a Western celebrity.
A concept of a shokunin is the antithesis of what we do in the West; they might spend ten years learning to make rice, or fifteen years cutting fish. In fact, an entire career dedicated to a single preparation! Consider that the word itself carries connotations that “chef” does not: duty, spiritual discipline, the moral obligation to pursue mastery regardless of recognition.
There is a famous Japanese concept, shokunin kishitsu, which roughly translates as “the craftsman’s spirit” and describes the obsessive, almost religious commitment to perfecting a single form over a lifetime.
The interesting question now asks what institutional conditions produced this model, which is so different from ours, because it didn’t emerge from some mysterious Japanese reverence for craft. As always, these things emerge from specific economic structures and incentives that made this an entirely rational strategy.
I’ll start with the za, Japan’s medieval guild system. (I should add, by the way, that a lot of my pre-Japan history around this came from this excellent podcast, Isaac Meyer’s History of Japan).
The za were monopoly organizations that controlled production and trade in specific crafts, granting exclusive rights to designated artisan groups in exchange for obligations to powerful patrons, including temples, shrines, feudal lords. So if you belonged to a za, your livelihood depended on maintaining your position within a defined domain. Meaning that you simply didn’t diversify, and you certainly didn’t innovate laterally, but rather you deepened your mastery within the boundaries that the guild had drawn for you, because those boundaries were the source of your economic protection.
This further intensified under the Tokugawa shogunate (1603–1868), which imposed a rigid four-tier social hierarchy: (1) samurai, (2) farmers, (3) artisans, and (4) merchants. And since mobility between classes was largely impossible, this meant that if you were born into an artisan family, the outcome of your economic life was fixed; you could thankfully not move down to become a merchant, but nor could you move up to become a samurai.
In fact, the only vector for advancement and the only way to accumulate social capital, reputation, and economic security, was to go deeper within your inherited craft, given that breadth was structurally not possible. Depth was the only option.
And so this is the political economy of the shokunin: a labor model produced by closed markets and impossibly rigid class structures, in which mastery of a single form was the rational response to a system that punished deviation while simultaneously rewarding fidelity.
Thus, the shokunin ethic is an adaptation to a constraint that was subsequently culturally kept even long after the original constraints were lifted. Obviously, the Tokugawa class system was abolished a long time ago in the Meiji Restoration of 1868, but the craft culture it produced and the structural worship and reverence for depth (plus a suspicion of novelty!), had by then become so deeply embedded in Japanese institutional life, and connected to moral standing, that it continued.
Now, that was the ideology. But how did this filter through society?
The transmission mechanism was the ie, known as the household system, which kind of designated this craft knowledge as an intergenerational inheritance, so to speak (and we kind of see this in the West as well, with intergenerational family businesses).
But the ie shouldn’t be confused with “a family”, as it was more of an economic unit in which the business, the techniques, the reputation, and the social identity were all inherited as a single package. Today, obviously, we’d call this “corporate synergies and brand values” and something Brooklyn Beckham recently had a lot to say about lolz.
So, this means that the sushi master’s counter is not his personal achievement, but the ie‘s productive asset, held in trust across generations. The apprentice does not aspire to open a competing restaurant with a different vision; the aspiration is to become the master, to inherit the counter, to reproduce the form with greater fidelity than the generation before. It is a reproductive model much more than a competitive one.
Compare this with the Western chef’s path, which Escoffier’s brigade system made feasible. In the Western kitchen, you start as a commis at a junior station (vegetables, cold prep), work your way through the stations, and if you’re good enough you eventually reach saucier, which is the most prestigious position before sous chef and chef de cuisine. Once you’ve peaked at a restaurant, you leave, open your own place, develop a personal style, and build a brand. The incentive structure rewards ambition, movement, differentiation, and eventually individual expression.
The whole trajectory is a competitive career ladder that terminates in self-prominence.
The Japanese system has no equivalent ladder! There is no moment of liberation, no break from the inherited form, and absolutely no assertion of individual voice against the institution.
And this maps onto broader structural differences between Japanese and Western capitalism: the keiretsu networks that emphasize long-term institutional relationships over market competition; the relative absence of hostile takeovers and disruptive entrepreneurship in traditional industries; the cultural suspicion of the founder-hero narrative that dominates Western business (which, honestly, we should probably all find suspicious by now).
The shokunin and the Western chef-celebrity are both products of their respective economic systems, and those systems reward fundamentally different things.
This is why the shokunin’s excellence through repetition is genuinely structural, and why you will find no signature dish, no personal brand, and no deviation. The ego and the culinary form are the same, which feels non-differentiated, and the only thing that remains is the form of culinary technique itself, executed with a precision that only decades of repetition can produce.
Actually, you could even go further to say that the shokunin is actually liberated by constraint (!). And that the inherited form is the freedom, because it eliminates the entire burden of originality and replaces it with depth!
And this is enormously relevant for understanding the generational crisis I’ll discuss later, because what is at risk today, in Japan, is not simply the loss of skilled individuals, but the collapse of the ie as a transmission mechanism.
Because when a young person declines to enter a ten-year apprenticeship, they are not just choosing a different career. They are breaking the institutional chain that produced the shokunin model in the first place. You are not losing a chef, you are losing the economic structure that made that kind of chef possible. And as I saw in Japan myself, this is a very, very, very real problem.
Seventy-Two Seasons
If the shokunin provides the labor model, and kaiseki provides the template from which all of this was derived, the thing that binds the entire Japanese food system together is a relationship to time that has no real Western equivalent.
(And yes, I am sober as I write this…)
As if the world is not already complicated enough, the Japanese calendar traditionally recognizes seventy-two micro-seasons, called shichijūni kō. This is not some kind of marketing language that you might expect from a weekly menu change at Noma or the French Laundry. It is a very real calendrical technology, rooted in Shinto and Chinese naturalist traditions, that pre-determines what can be cooked, when, and why.
So: each micro-season basically lasts roughly five days and describes a specific natural phenomenon: “East winds melt the ice.” “Hibernating insects open their doors.” “Paulownia trees produce seeds.”
(In fact, maybe French Laundry should steal some of this)
Meaning that a kaiseki menu in early March is structurally different from a kaiseki menu in late March, because March has moved. The cherry blossom that appears on a plate in the first week would be completely, embarrassingly erroneous in the third week. And the fish that defines this five-day window will be replaced by a different fish in the next one. The menu is a function of time itself. It is time. The menu is a technology in the same way that a watch is a technology.
So, I was in Japan during the last week of January and the first week of February, which turns out to sit on one of the most significant hinges in the entire calendar! The micro-seasons I ate through were:
“Ice thickens on the streams,”
“Hens begin to lay eggs” (the final micro-season before the calendar year turns),
“East wind melts the ice,” which marks Risshun, the official beginning of spring on February 4th.
The plates reflected this: In late January I was in deep winter: fatty kanburi (cold-season yellowtail, at its richest because the fish have fattened migrating south through cold water), fugu, winter tuna, daikon, yuzu.
By early February, the first butterbur sprouts had started appearing, signaling that the calendar had moved. The menu in the first week of February could not have been the menu I ate in the last week of January, because January and February are different worlds.
This produces something that the Western culinary system has struggled to achieve: genuine non-repeatability!
Every meal is temporally indexed because it belongs to this moment and cannot be reproduced next month, because the season will have shifted, the ingredients will have changed, and the entire framework that structured the meal will have moved on. The non-repeatability I identified in Part II as the new luxury (experiences that cannot be replicated or repurchased) is, in Japan, simply the default condition of cooking well.
The Western Michelin system, by contrast, rewards exactly the opposite: consistency!
A starred restaurant must deliver the same level of excellence every time an anonymous inspector arrives, which means the ideal Michelin dish is time-invariant. In other words, it should be as good in June as in October, and for many multi-starred Michelins, this involves having many of the same dishes to perfection.
Japanese Smallness
One more piece of institutional inheritance matters for understanding where Japan is today, and it’s the one that strikes every Western visitor most immediately: the restaurants are tiny.
Six seats. Or eight seats. The chef works in front of you, often alone, and there is one service per evening where there is one “menu” which tells you that you will eat what you are given.
This is typically discussed as an aesthetic choice; as an expression of Japanese minimalism or cultural preference, but it is actually an economic structure, with very old roots.
The Japanese tradition of counter dining evolved from yatai (street food stalls) and kappo (chef-driven cooking performed in front of guests), both of which predate the Western restaurant concept. These formats never needed to solve the concurrency problem that defined Western dining, as there was no moment equivalent to European urbanization where a sudden population boom required feeding hundreds of strangers simultaneously.
The problem that produced Escoffier’s brigade system (“how do you serve many diners, ordering differently, all expecting the same result”) simply did not arise in this way.
So the kitchen never industrialized, and the chef never needed Escoffier’s brigade. The management apparatus that defined Western fine dining for a century was totally unnecessary in Japan because the structural decision, passed across generations, was to serve fewer people.
This smallness also meant that the relationship between chef and diner remained personal in a way that the Western system very sadly abandoned early. At a six-seat counter, the chef knows who is eating and the meal can be adjusted in real time. (Those of you reading this with kids, particularly picky ones, will know this).
The experience is conversational and there is no front-of-house team mediating between kitchen and table, no choreography of service, and no separation between production and consumption, which is where the hierarchy between chef and patron is entirely created in the West.
Where Japan Is Today
Toyosu at 5am
On one of my first mornings in Tokyo, after trying and failing to beat jet lag, I decided at 3am to get up and go meet some fishermen. Eventually, I found myself in the Toyosu fish market at 5am watching the tuna auction, feeling overwhelmed by the smell of fish, raw and cooked, being served up to those finishing their night shifts.
In a literal sense, Toyosu is a wholesale fish market where Bluefin tuna are laid out in rows, with chefs and buyers inspecting tail cuts with flashlights, as an auctioneer moves through the lot at a dizzying speed.
But what struck me was how little the scene resembled a commodity market in any Western sense. There was no negotiation or haggling, and the prices that morning encoded something that Western commodity markets do not: this tuna was caught this morning, in this water, at this temperature, at this point in the season. Tomorrow’s tuna will be a different animal, literally and economically. The same cut from the same species will cost wildly different amounts next month, because it will be a different month.
The first bonito of the season (please forgive me for saying this, but bonito = dried tuna flakes that are put as often as salt and pepper into Japanese food, and is indistinguishable in taste for me from fishfood) carries enormous cultural and economic value precisely because it is the first, and because it marks a temporal threshold that the entire food system recognizes.
When the season for a particular fish ends, it ends. The supply chain does not route around this fact. There is no FedEx workaround as with many global Michelin restaurants. The constraint is as absolute as time (because the menu, again, is time!).
The Toyosu auction is, in other words, the seventy-two-season system seen as market infrastructure. Prices, menus, commodities, and time are all the same thing here, viewed through different lenses!
The tuna is expensive because it is January, and it is on the menu because it is expensive, and it is expensive because this particular fish exists only in this particular five-day window of cold water and migration patterns. Remove any one of these variables and the others collapse. This is very much the opposite of the globalized Western supply chain, which is organized to defeat entirely the natural seasons and ensure that nothing is ever unavailable. In the West, this means that price is a function of logistics costs; and menus are a function of customer preference. Time is, very strangely if you think about it, irrelevant to both.
Adding quickly to this as a sub-note, I also spent some attempting to understand Japanese wine while I was there, which is genuinely interesting (and unfortunately tastes as good as you suspect it might taste…). Japan obviously has no natural advantage in winemaking and produces wine anyway, at small scale, with obsessive local specificity. It would be cheaper and objectively easier to import. But I suppose Japan is a culture that defaults to locality and temporality even when efficiency argues against it!
What The Experience Actually Feels Like
Right. So… describing the inherited system is one thing. Sitting inside it is another beast entirely.
At a great omakase (“to entrust”) counter in Tokyo, the experience is roughly this: you arrive, you sit, there is no menu or choices, and the chef places a piece of fish in front of you. You eat it, and he places the next one. The pacing is entirely his, just as the sequencing is entirely his. The peak of the meal (the moment of greatest intensity) arrives when he decides it arrives, not when you are ready for it.
This is the movie-director model I discussed in Part II, pushed to its limit. The chef controls timing, sequence, pacing, and emotional arc with total authority. The diner’s role is to receive. And the act of surrender; to give up the very human instinct of choice and preference, turns out to be inseparable from the pleasure.
This solves the attention problem I identified in Part II with an almost embarrassing directness. I argued that the modern Western diner is cognitively overwhelmed, that everything competes with a feed, and that dining must justify three hours of full presence against the entire internet. At a six-seat counter where the chef is working eighteen inches from your face, this problem vanishes entirely! You cannot scroll your phone when someone is personally slicing fish for you while making eye contact. The architecture forbids distraction; and anyway, the restaurant’s physical design produces the presence that Western restaurants are increasingly desperate to manufacture through theatrical interventions, phone-locking pouches, and elaborate multi-sensory experiences.
The status dynamic is different too, considering that the scarcity at a six-seat restaurant is genuine because, well… there are literally six seats. You cannot buy your way past this constraint by knowing the manager (who is the server and also the chef). This is scarcity as a byproduct of craft, and it is completely different from the manufactured scarcity of a members’ club!
Where It Breaks
It would be easy to romanticize all of this into a narrative where Japan represents some kind of culinary paradise untouched by modernity’s problems. That would be wrong. Japan’s food system has its own crises, and they are genuinely serious.
The first is what I would call Michelin-ification. When the Michelin Guide arrived in Tokyo in 2007, it awarded the city more stars than Paris, which caused a brief and delightful Franco-Japanese diplomatic incident.
Of course, (French) critics questioned whether Michelin was being too generous to gain acceptance with Japanese customers and help its parent company sell tyres in Japan. (How dare you equate yakitori grills with grand Parisian establishments like La Tour d’Argent!!).
But the deeper problem was structural. Consider that the Michelin framework is designed to evaluate restaurants that optimize for consistency, legibility, and reproducibility. Japanese restaurants that optimize for intimacy, temporal specificity, and the disappearance of the chef’s ego into tradition do not map cleanly onto this framework. The star actually does little more than create a different kind of pressure: unwanted international visibility, tourist demand, and reservation scalping.
Some restaurateurs actually asked Michelin to revoke their stars because of this! And in fact, I experienced this myself first hand. When I found myself in a remote part of Japan’s north island close to Russia, many restaurants there were extremely unwilling to let me in; at one stage even pretending to think that I was trying to buy the dining table when I pointed at it at dinner time, instead of acknowledging that I wanted to be fed, and just saying no!!
The second crisis is generational. The shokunin model obviously depends on apprenticeship pipelines that are disappearing. The economics are brutal: a young person must commit to a decade or more of low-paid, physically demanding work, mastering a single form, in an economy that offers vastly more comfortable alternatives.
The number of young Japanese willing to spend ten years learning to make rice is declining! And this is an existential threat to the entire system, because the economics of smallness depend on a labor supply of people willing to accept the terms of craft mastery. Verifying this, the chefs I worked with in a European 2* that had worked in similar Tokyo establishments, spoke of twenty-hour days of never-endingly brutal labor to… make rice.
This rice, by the way, is entirely impossible for us mere Westerners to properly even taste; I would consider myself to have a very strong palate given my adventures in food and wine, and it all tasted identical to me (again, sorry!).
The third crisis is the Uniqlo problem, which I teased in Part I. Uniqlo solved a version of the same question that has defined Western culinary history: how do you make quality accessible at scale? The answer was to strip away everything that didn’t contribute to function, standardize production, and distribute globally. This produced genuinely excellent basics at democratic prices, which is a remarkable achievement.
Applied to food, this logic produces conveyor-belt sushi! It is good, it is everywhere, and it coexists with the six-seat counter where the chef has been cutting tuna for thirty years, in the same way that Uniqlo coexists with a Kyoto tailor who makes three kimonos a month by hand.
The question is whether the small-scale system can survive alongside the industrialized one indefinitely (especially when people like me can’t taste the difference?); or whether the economic logic of scale will eventually consume it.
Japan’s food culture is, in this sense, a live experiment in whether craft and mass production can coexist within the same economic system without one cannibalizing the other. The vibe on the ground suggested, unfortunately, that perhaps not.
What the West Is Borrowing
The most interesting Western restaurants I discussed in Part II (Ultraviolet, Freixa, Gohar, Tuna Fight Club) are all independently reinventing pieces of the Japanese model:
Smallness
Sequencing
Non-repeatability
Meaning through constraint.
They are arriving at these solutions through intuition and experimentation, often without explicit reference to Japanese precedent.
Freixa seats a handful of strangers at one table; the entire restaurant is a dinner party. Tuna Fight Club fits thirty people in a basement with one fish; this was essentially restaurant standard practice in Japan. Ultraviolet has ten seats and sequences the room itself around the diner. These are conscious design choices made by chefs who have independently arrived at solutions that Japan embedded in its restaurant architecture generations ago.
Incidentally, my neighbor in London has been trying to get us tickets for Tuna Fight Club (which, again, is around the corner from us), for quite some time. Could I now feel OK with paying $450 for one meal, that I had every day in Japan for $15? I’m not so sure…
But the institutional need beneath these experiments is fundamentally different, and this difference will ultimately determine how far the convergence can go.
Japan’s culinary meaning is embedded in deep cultural infrastructure that has been borne from the Shinto’s seasonality as a temporal framework. The Buddhist ideology, too, lends everything a philosophical orientation toward impermanence and absolute restraint. And of course, centuries of craft lineage provide the labor model. Then, the tea ceremony provides the original template that led to all of this.
The meaning, therefore, comes from outside the restaurant, from a long-standing civilizational context that the meal draws upon and expresses inherently, and often implicitly.
The West does not have this infrastructure. Western culture is optimized for scale, novelty, content production, and individual expression. (Yes, if ever you thought we sounded like dumb Americans, this is it). A Western chef who wants to create a meaningful dining experience must build the entire meaning architecture from scratch, inside the restaurant, in a culture that will immediately try to content-ify it, scale it, and strip it for parts before selling it to Private Equity.
While Japan’s challenge is sustaining an inherited system of meaning under the pressures of modernity; the West’s challenge is constructing one without any inherited infrastructure to build on.
The Netflix Problem
Which brings me to something I have been thinking about since I started writing this series, and which connects to a much larger observation about Western life.
The West has built a food system that mirrors Netflix, with infinite options, frictionless access, and algorithmically surfaced recommendations. The billion-dollar industry of restaurant reviews, ratings, rankings, lists. You can eat anything, anywhere, at any time. The supply chain is global, while the information is both total and totalitarian. The dominant experience, the one that defines how most people interact with this abundance, is paralysis.
You scroll, you compare, you read the reviews. You look at the photos and you check the price. And finally, after all of the above, you second-guess the entire meal away about whether the other place would have been better. This is the decision-fatigue problem applied to eating, and it is identical in structure to what seemingly happens these days in dating, which has undergone an identical structural transformation.
The apps provide infinite choice, frictionless matching, and total information. And the dominant experience, as my friends who use them tell me, is complete exhaustion. Endless scrolling through human beings, comparing options, keeping alternatives open, wondering whether someone better is one more swipe away.
What people actually want, visibly and desperately, is to be chosen. They want omakase in their lives; to be decisively told: “Here. I choose you, and only you!” and for the scroll to stop. People want the omakase to surrender their preferences to someone who is serious about the craft of paying attention, and to sit back and trust the sequencing.
Because, you see, endless choice turns out to be a surprisingly effective mechanism for destroying enjoyment.
Japan’s food system is the structural opposite of Netflix. It is closer to someone handing you a single film and saying: this is what we’re watching tonight, because it is March, and this is what March means, and you’ll do it without your phone or any other distraction, beginning to end. The constraint is the product. And the relief of not choosing is itself the luxury.
What I Could Not Read
I should be honest about something, though, because the experience I just described; this constraint as a luxury, is the experience of someone who can read the system.
I… Could not.
What I actually found in Japan was, embarrassingly, paralysis. I walked into restaurants and could not tell if they were extraordinary or ordinary, because they all looked the same to me.
The menus, where menus existed, were indistinguishable. The meals were indistinguishable. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner frequently felt like the same plate of fish and rice served three times a day in three different rooms, and all I could taste was bonito (aka fishfood for people like me, the unlearned). I could not figure out if one sushi counter was better than another, because the differentiation that a Japanese diner reads effortlessly (e..g this chef’s rice is superior, or this particular piece of yellowtail is exceptional because of where it sits in the migration cycle) was something I simply could not perceive.
In short, I lacked the cultural literacy to decode any of it. And without that literacy, the entire system collapsed into sameness and boringness. I went the whole way to Japan, and felt starved of the excitement of a culinary explosion I was anticipating!
This turns out to be the most important thing I learned in Japan, because it proves the argument from the other direction!
The meaning in Japanese dining is not in the food itself; it is in the cultural infrastructure that surrounds the food: the seasonal knowledge, the craft literacy, the ability to perceive micro-differences that only generations of embedded dining culture make legible. Strip that infrastructure away and you are left with a tourist (me) eating what appears to be an identical meal on repeat, unable to distinguish the extraordinary from the competent, completely paralyzed by the absence of all the Western differentiation signals. Different menus, different cuisines, different price points, different atmospheres… all the things that I have been trained my entire life to navigate by.
Thus, the Japanese system’s greatest strength is also its greatest barrier to entry.
“Meaning through constraint” only works if you can read the constraints. And this is exactly why Michelin’s arrival in Tokyo was so structurally disruptive: it offered to make Japanese restaurants legible to outsiders by imposing Western markers (stars, rankings, categories), and in doing so it began to erode the very qualities that made them work for insiders.
So yes, when the first Tokyo guide launched in 2007 as I mentioned, the system that was supposed to recognize excellence had, in practice, made excellence harder to sustain.
And perhaps this is the deeper point behind the entire series.
The chef’s job has always been to solve what the prevailing economic system has most recently broken about eating. And what is broken now, in the West, is the capacity to choose meaningfully from infinite abundance. In other words, we have more options than any civilization in history and less ability to commit to any of them (which is clearly not just a food problem!).
The Japanese food system suggests, however, that the answer is counterintuitive. They say: build structures that make choice unnecessary; create constraints so embedded in time and place and philosophy that the question of “what should I eat?” disappears before it is asked. The meal arrives, and it is exactly what this moment requires, because the chef, the season, and the architecture have already decided.
But those structures only work if you can read them. And most of us, trained by abundance, trained by Netflix, trained by the scroll, cannot. My pal, a movie critic, sent me a message a few days ago discussing the term “algorithmically trapped”; which is horrifying and, perhaps, for people like me, true.
The restaurants that will define the next era will be the ones that solve this from both directions. Japan and the West have converged on the same question, despite arriving from opposite sides: how do you build constraints understandable enough for outsiders like me to read, without destroying the depth that made them worth reading in the first place?
The future of dining, it seems to me, is therefore the end of the menu.