Latest news with #Kaji
Los Angeles Times
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- Los Angeles Times
From cowboy to sushi chef to social media star, Tetsuya Nakao is doing it ‘Asanebo style'
On a recent Sunday afternoon, Tetsuya Nakao — the affable, upbeat 62-year-old Asanebo sushi chef with slicked silver hair — is filming one of his soon-to-be viral videos. Cheeky, occasionally unhinged and released nearly every day, they've garnered the Studio City legend a new fandom that's changed Nakao's life and his business, possibly forever. Nakao is flanked by cameras at a makeshift cooking station at the center of his restaurant. He seamlessly bounces between Japanese and English as he speaks to his staff while topping his crispy-rice 'pizza' with Wagyu slices, caviar, uni and gold dust. The dish won't be served at his restaurant, but it could be shared by millions of fans. He dusts so much edible gold over the top it looks like the 'pizza' passed through the glitter aisle at a craft store, a dish truly made for the eye of the algorithm. A cameraman readies the boom mic to catch the crunching sounds from his first bite. They throw out line suggestions: 'Better than Pizza Hut,' 'Better than Domino's,' 'I'm the real Papa John.' (They settle on the last one, after deciding they probably won't get sued.) In one video he deep-fries a Labubu. In another, he plays Jenga with raw Wagyu. Playful and regularly ending with the signature phrase 'Asanebo style,' Nakao's videos have captured a social media audience that's turned the stalwart sushi spot into an international destination. 'We've had customers flying from all over the world,' says general manager Kunio Kaji, an employee of roughly 16 years and a driving force behind Asanebo's videos. 'We have people who came on a private jet from Japan just to see him. … It's to a point where he's known. It's not like back in the day, when he was just in the back peeling onions. He's a star.' They started the restaurant's Instagram account with 4,000 followers. Now they've amassed more than 1.1 million fans on that platform, and more than 950,000 on TikTok. Nakao reluctantly agreed to appear online. In the wake of a pandemic, entertainment industry strikes, rising operating costs and wildfires, they needed a new way to advertise the business. It also introduced him — a chef who preferred to work behind the scenes — to the world. 'The whole point was me trying to get him out of his shell that he was in,' says Kaji, who also appears in the videos. 'I told him I had this vision, and if this really works, I think it not only will draw more people to come in, but everyone's going to recognize him for who he is and what he has accomplished for 34 years.' Nakao's sons, 19 and 22, watch the videos religiously. His wife, he says, never mentions them. The team films on Wednesday and Sunday afternoons before dinner service, anywhere from three to seven videos each day. Today they're shooting a cooking ASMR — the most popular but also time consuming — as well as two 'relatables': silly, trend-inspired sketches that often involve Kaji and the chefs. Between shoots it feels a little like a green room before a play. Staff change into costumes. One dons a long, blond wig. They quickly run through the sketches, the blocking and their lines. Two members of Nakao's team say that while there are many food videos vying for attention in the world, there is only one Nakao, and he's the secret to their success. Now he's approached for photos at the grocery store or at dinner with his family. They ask, 'Excuse me, are you Asanebo?' 'I never expected it,' Nakao says of his newfound stardom. 'I started the Instagram at 61; I didn't know what Instagram is! Like, you know, TikTok? 'What is the TikTok?'' 'He thought it was a Tic Tac,' Kaji laughs. 'I said, 'It's an app.' He said, 'App? What's an app?'' It's a far cry from the pastoral cowboy life Nakao imagined he'd lead. When the rugged appeal of the Marlboro Man caught his eye, Tokyo-born-and-raised Nakao flew to San Luis Obispo in 1982 to work on a family friend's ranch. ('I thought, 'Wow' — that's a man! I want to be like this.') Unable to wake up early enough to work the land and tend the cattle, he was fired after only a month and a half. Nearly a decade later it would inspire the name of his own restaurant, 'Asanebo,' which translates to 'sleepyhead' or 'late riser.' He moved to Los Angeles to find a new career and, only able to say 'yes,' 'no' and 'thank you' in English, trawled the local Japanese newspapers to find a job. He started as a dishwasher at a restaurant in Marina del Rey, and soon after was transferred to the sushi station. It was there, at O-Sho, that he met Nobu Matsuhisa. Before he became one of the world's most famous sushi masters and founded upscale chain Nobu, Matsuhisa took Nakao under his wing, as well as Nakao's younger brother, Shin Sushi chef-owner Shin Nakao. The three worked together at O-Sho, and then at Matsuhisa in Beverly Hills, before the Nakao brothers left to begin Asanebo. Shin departed in 2000, while Tetsuya remained. The popularity grew steadily over the decades, especially with locals and celebrities; today, Bruno Mars is waiting patiently outside for the doors to open. But the largest jump in sales, Kaji says, came from Nakao's new online stardom. They estimate business has increased 20% to 30%. When the initiative began last April, Nakao never wanted to touch the ornate and outrageous dishes that garner the most views, likes and follows. For nearly all of his career the man wouldn't offer rolls made with now-ubiquitous mayonnaise or sriracha. He never imagined he'd make sushi inspired by the video game 'Minecraft.' But after a few attempts, Nakao realized he could do both: serve the classics at the restaurant, and the over-the-top online. It's helped him become more flexible as a chef: Now he does serve mayonnaise-laced hand rolls and spicy tuna, though he still refuses to make sushi rolls featuring rice on the exterior; it wouldn't do his imported Japanese seaweed justice. His exacting parameters haven't stopped legions of fans from requesting his video items at Asanebo, which the team politely declines to make. And Nakao's popularity hasn't stopped blowback from sushi purists. 'There were comments and direct messages saying, 'What are you doing? You're a sushi chef, you're not supposed to be doing this,'' Kaji said. 'People are commenting, 'You've gone mad.'' They hurt the chef's feelings on a deeply personal level. He grew to understand that this is par for the course when existing on the internet. Now, Nakao says, he simply never reads the comments. Back at the center of the intimate, wood-accented sushi bar, before Nakao takes a bite of his 'pizza,' a camera operator reminds him to flash his signature thumbs-up and say the tagline heard 'round the world: 'Asanebo style!' They breeze through two more videos before wrapping up the day's social media shoots. Maybe next time, they say, Nakao should riff on skincare, rubbing uni and other ingredients on his face as if part of a nighttime routine? Or maybe they should make another video with jumbo clams? They decide to table the decision for another day, turning their attention to dinner service. After all, they're still running one of the city's favorite sushi restaurants and Bruno Mars is waiting.
Telegraph
06-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Telegraph
William Sitwell reviews Pip, Manchester: ‘One's eyebrows are raised at the portion control'
This week's review was supposed to be about Kaji, a place that's all big screens, loud tunes and tall flames. Or, as they put it themselves, where 'the thrill of fire-driven cooking meets the pulse of high-energy music'. It's a Japanese restaurant, whose stoves – behind the long, central bar – are manned by a collection of burly lads. It's all tummies, bald heads, tattoos and heat. And while the service and the sashimi are good – excellent fish, some of it cured, and with perfect body-temperature sushi rice – the place is afflicted by some overbearing cooking that cheapens the noble name of Japanese cuisine: a pair of nori seaweed crackers come as balls filled with sickly sweet kimchi ketchup in a vulgar fist-fight with some creamy cod's roe. Some fried oysters (always a terrible concept) drown in a dump of mayo and hot bonito sauce, and lamb chops fail the tender test and are properly wrecked sitting on a vulgar pond of sticky 'tomato ponzu'. No beast should die to have that stuff squirted anywhere near it. And Kaji is a Japanese gaff without sake. Which is like opening a British pub in Tokyo and forgetting to put an ale on tap. All of which brash (and pricey) torture makes Pip such a great-value tonic. This latest addition to the city's generally fabulous dining scene is in the new Treehouse hotel in the city centre. It takes up the whole of the lobby, and a wonderful thing that is too, being a charmingly colourful and comfortable space. The place is clad in wood, ropes and greenery – the veritable treehouse – and the chef is Mary-Ellen McTague, an earthy character, a sort of Alice Waters of modern-day Manchester. Her menu distils elements of local food culture, bringing them to the table – via great charm by the way, as the staff are a dream – with considerable finesse. Although such is the level of refinement that one's eyebrows are raised at the portion control. I was worried my Lancashire hot pot would leave me struggling to rise from my chair, imagining a vast scoop from a large casserole, a steaming mass of potato slices atop a hearty stew. But instead came a dainty oval pot of braised shoulder with a small spoon of cabbage and an oyster shell filled with salty sauce. It was fabulously good though, an elegant version of this classic dish. And there was similar Borrowers -style hilarity with our starter of British charcuterie. The waiter had even hinted at its vastness, to such an extent that I said I'd have it anyway and then perhaps they could box the remains of this charnel house of cured meats. Instead came three slices of bresaola and two of coppa. We swallowed them merrily, with the crunch of melba toast, quicker than you can say 'smörgåsbord, what smörgåsbord?' But, as with the main course, the flavour was perfect. We had snacked on naughty little treats of smoked nuts and cheese gougères and, that meat plate aside, a starter of creamy wild garlic soup, with little bits of spongy goat's cheese bobbing around. It was a gorgeous thing, deft and velvety, capturing the flavours of spring. My pal Flora had a chicken dish; tender slices of crisp-skinned breast with a little open pie of leg meat. Enough for her, but I would have asked for both legs and the rest of the bird. Pud was a shared apple trifle, a gift from heaven in spoonfuls of custard, soft sponge and apple that made me want to issue a diktat that all future trifles must be like this: ditch the sherry and pour on the calvados. Bravo, Pip. Pip pip!
