Before writing the text on Narisawa or any of the restaurants in Japan about which I intend to publish something, I found myself wondering how to approach them: from a Western perspective, or by attempting to put myself in the shoes of an Easterner. Narisawa is probably the “easiest” restaurant in this regard, along with sushi-ya, tempura specialists, or yakitori restaurants. However, things become more complex when we attempt to evaluate a kaiseki restaurant, especially one of the more traditional kind.
On the one hand, I believe that doing so purely from our own perspective is a mistake, as it shows little interest in understanding, engaging with, and entering into their culture.
On the other hand, trying to adopt an Eastern perspective requires an effort that could almost be described as a kind of alienation from one’s own identity. Moreover, I am not entirely sure how respectful that is either, since I cannot cease to be who I am: a Westerner born in the Maresme region and raised in a Catholic environment.
This leads me to a series of questions:
Does describing, analyzing, and evaluating an Eastern restaurant from a Western perspective invalidate the author’s arguments?
Is it legitimate to compare Eastern restaurants with Western ones? Considering that guides and rankings place them in the same category, it would seem not necessarily wrong. Yet precisely one of the criticisms we make of these rankings is that they mix apples and pears, scoring equally restaurants with different concepts, locations, styles, and capacities.
Is this double analysis indispensable?
Should we perform the inverse exercise and look at Western cuisine from an Eastern perspective as well?
What motivates me to undertake this exercise: the fact that the restaurant is located in Asia, or that it is owned by a Japanese chef?
Should we also evaluate Japanese restaurants in the West through an Eastern lens?
For me, the answer, as always, lies in caution and respect (since the criteria and values of one society differ from those of another), as well as in the interpretation one chooses to make of the meal and the restaurant.
In my publication on Narisawa, I drew a comparison between naturalism in the West and in Japan, and broadly stated that I was attempting a cultural translation from a Western perspective. In this text, however, I exceptionally make certain remarks about Narisawa and “Japanese cuisine” from an Eastern perspective — a punctual exercise intended to reflect upon the two viewpoints, which can also be interpreted as a rebuttal in which I refute myself.
The idea is to examine which aspects of my own writing on Narisawa may not be accurately described or interpreted if we attempt to view them from an Eastern perspective. Ultimately, it is about looking at things either from the inside or from the outside.
To begin with, my text on Narisawa is written from a perspective mediated by a Western (European) lens, which means that some interpretations (such as what is “truly Japanese”) are influenced by my own cultural framework.
- In the East, the tone, criteria, and language would be quite different.
- In the East, less importance would be given to whether the cuisine is French or Japanese, or to technical innovation, and more to how the restaurant relates ethically to nature, time, and the community.
- In the East, the concept of satoyama would not be explained (and certainly not as an intellectual concept); it would be taken for granted and not folklorized.
- In the East, the focus would not be on the chef as author, but on the ecosystem: there would be less discussion of the chef as a creative genius and more about his role as a mediator, even though the figure of the master exists.
- In the East, the key question would not be “what does Chef Narisawa want to express?” but rather “how does Narisawa, as a cook, allow the forest, the land, and the seasons to speak?”
- In the East, the restaurant would be seen as a continuation of the Japanese landscape, not as a personal work.
- In the East, the goal is not to surprise, but not to betray. In the West, we value innovation, shock, creativity, rupture. In contrast, in the East, coherence, balance, restraint, and appropriateness to the moment are valued. In the East, an excellent dish is one that makes you think, “it could only have been this way; it could not have been otherwise,” rather than “I have never seen this before.”
- In the East, a dish should not seek to take center stage or demand attention.
- In the East, greater value is placed on the menu maintaining balance, making responsible use of resources, respecting natural cycles, and avoiding excess or unnecessary artifice.
- In the East, time is more important than discourse. The menu would not be judged as “long” or “short,” but rather on whether the timing, rhythm, and pauses were appropriate, and on how the diner is guided without even realizing it.
- In the East, the value framework and the language used to evaluate an experience change. Instead of speaking of intensity, power, and contrast, one would speak of balance, resonance, and calm. That is, rather than emphasizing expressive and impactful qualities such as intensity, power, or contrast (associated with effect and force), relational and harmonious values such as balance, resonance, and calm would be prioritized — defining a more subtle, integrated, and sustained experience in time, memory, and reflection. It is less about provoking or impressing, and more about adjusting, harmonizing, and allowing elements to enter into dialogue with one another and with the person who perceives them.
- In the East, harmony is more important than taste understood independently (umami embodies this holistic idea).
- In the East, a dish may be subtle to the point of near invisibility and still be considered perfect. Personally, I might agree with this if we were speaking about philosophy, music, or the visual arts, but I find it difficult to fully accept when it comes to food.
- In the East, minimalism is understood not only as an aesthetic factor, but also as an ethical one. Therefore, a dish that is “subtle to the point of invisibility” is not minimalist for aesthetic reasons, but for ethical ones — it reflects values and an attitude toward life, and becomes a form of modesty, not merely of appearance.
Possibly one of the reasons why certain types of Eastern cuisine are so difficult to understand and interpret in the West is that, when judged by Western criteria, they may appear inexpressive, when in fact they require a different kind of attention and predisposition in order to be understood.
In the end, however, I also ask myself:
- To what extent is the dichotomy East vs. West a fixed and universal reality, rather than a set of images and discourses we have constructed to project ideological stereotypes that may simplify or distort reality?
- To what extent are they also influenced by the West, especially by the United States since the Second World War? And therefore, through these reciprocal influences, do hybridizations inevitably emerge?
- Is it truly the case that Narisawa does not seek to create dishes to be remembered in our sense of the word? Does he truly aim to create dishes that do not call attention to themselves in this pursuit of invisibility?
- To what extent, when we speak of “the West,” are we speaking of a single gaze, when we consciously know that the perspective of a Californian American has little to do with that of someone from New Orleans — not to mention the cultural differences between a Galician, a Dane, or a Greek? And the same applies to a Japanese person from Hiroshima or Hokkaido, or to someone from Hong Kong or Seoul.
- To what extent is this very exercise itself part of a Western way of looking?
Ultimately, the challenge is to approach a different culture with respect, curiosity, and awareness of one’s own limitations and prejudices.
