Welcome to The Love of Wine Part Four. These stories draw on some of the more unlikely experiences that I’ve enjoyed during my working life in wine.

Right now it seems like everyone I know is either about to visit or has just come back from Japan. When they tell me about their journey, I can’t help but reflect fondly on my own memories of travels through the land of the Rising Sun. So, in this edition of The Love of Wine, we head overseas as I recount my experiences in this extraordinary country, replete with great food, cringeworthy misunderstandings, and insight into the true value of craftmanship.

I’ve been fortunate to have visited Japan twice. Most recently, I holidayed there in 2019, but my first trip was almost fifteen years prior, in 2005. I made that journey while employed as winemaker at James and Philippa Davern’s Wandin Valley Estate, in Lovedale. I’d only recently taken the reigns in the winery, and we were in the throes of vintage. Unfortunately, harvest had aligned with the dates of a major food & wine trade show in Tokyo. Despite the poor timing, it was important I got over there to support our distributor, as orders had been waning in the months prior.

With the pressures of vintage bearing down, it would need to be a whirlwind trip. I’d fly overnight, work the first day of the trade show, stay that night and the next, before returning home at the conclusion of the third day. Fortunately, I was only twenty-three at the time, so the travel turnaround mattered little, particularly as I was buzzing with excitement and pride at the prospect of taking my first business trip abroad!

Our importer, Kimura, accompanied by his teenage son, met me at a Tokyo metro station after I’d cleared the airport. Both were purposefully dressed in white shirts, black suits and non-patterned ties; I noticed this was just like almost every other businessperson I saw. After exchanging our very polite and surprisingly formal introductions, we made our way directly to the sprawling exhibition centre that would play host to the trade show.

The event was really just like any other I had been to in Australia; a large, harshly lit hall populated by hundreds of exhibitors from Japan or further afield hoping to attract the attention of any of the thousands of trade buyers in attendance. The stalls ranged from the elaborate, with purpose-built bars, seductive lounge areas and attention-grabbing audio / visual displays, to the humble, like ours, which was effectively a small counter, behind which we would simply prop a pull-up banner promoting Kimura’s business. The wines that sat across the bar top were our best chance of attracting attention, along with the enthusiastic smiles we offered to any passer-by that showed even fleeting interest.

Despite the basic appearance of our stand, we poured samples of the wines to what seemed like plenty of potential buyers, including – as Kimura attempted to describe in very broken English – a couple of sommeliers from two of Tokyo’s top restaurants. Even though the first day was long and tiring, I was nevertheless excited when Kimura invited me out for sushi as the trade show wound down.

Making our way to dinner, Kimura enthusiastically told me that we were going to a very good restaurant. And while our language barrier limited the description of the venue to just those few words, sushi was obviously on my must-do list while I was in Japan, so even better if it happened to be somewhere special!

However, the image of the classy fine diner I held in my mind soon faded as we made our way into a shopping mall that sat directly behind a major bus station. This seemed like a highly unlikely location for a great restaurant. Up an escalator or two and we were standing in front of a very average looking establishment. In fact, the one distinct memory I have of the restaurant’s appearance was just how small it was. There couldn’t have been more than ten seats contained in that brightly lit room, and all were positioned along the kitchen counter.

If nothing else, we’ll get a good view of the action I told myself.

Once we were seated, it quickly became apparent this was like no other sushi restaurant I had known. For a start, there was no menu. The host, who spoke great English, explained the chef would decide what would be served each evening. There were no chopsticks (unless specifically requested) – we were to eat with our hands – and there were none of the usual condiments like wasabi or soya sauce. Aside from a small mound of ginger plated before each diner to refresh their palate between dishes, we were told there was no need for these other enhancements as they would destroy the perfect balance of the dishes being served.

No doubt, I was now intrigued!

Dinner began with an ice-cold Asahi, which was very welcome at the end of such a long day. Kimura thanked me for coming to Japan, I thanked him for hosting, and we nodded and sipped our beers amicably. A few moments later and the chef emerged from behind patterned curtains.

I almost choked on my drink as I took in the gentleman now bowing before us in the open kitchen. Here was a small, slightly built, but warmly faced man who appeared to be well into his senior years. ‘He must be ninety years old – surely, he isn’t the only chef here!’ I thought incredulously to myself.

Obviously, Kimura noticed my amazement, and leaned in to speak quietly. ‘He is a Grand Master Chef.’ I had never heard of such a title.

After organising his work bench, laid out with various chopping boards and carefully arranged knives, the old chef took us in with his wise, owl-like eyes. He then exchanged a few words with Kimura – I have no idea what was said – and then got to work.

I quickly realised why this man was indeed considered a grand master. His knife skills were nothing short of extraordinary. I noticed the other diners were now also peering wondrously over the bar top to see the chef in action. We were all wearing childlike grins as he delicately retrieved fillets of the freshest looking fish I’ve ever seen, and then, with lightning speed and almost impossible precision, set about making incision after incision, until he had enough perfectly balanced slices of fish to sit atop the first small handfuls of rice he was now shaping.

Before the first plates of sushi landed on the counter, a small glass carafe of sake appeared. Kimura seemed particularly excited about this and set about pouring us each a small measure. I had tried sake a few times in Australia, but to be honest, hadn’t really been taken by the drink. Those that I had experienced were all served warm, but interestingly, this one was cold. Kimura smiled, dipped his head with a bow, and we toasted. I then downed the contents of the small glass in one swift motion. When I looked back to Kimura, I found what looked like mild horror on his face. Clearly aware that I had no understanding of the drink before me, his expression softened, and then he offered some guidance.

‘This.’ Gesturing toward the small bottle, ‘Is very good sake. We sip.’

He then demonstrated a more modest way to enjoy the drink and poured again for me to try. I do recall this sake being far less sweet than those I had tasted previously, and much more supple on the palate, with no bitterness at all. I smiled and nodded in appreciation. No doubt this was a superior bottle, but sadly the more nuanced qualities were lost on my inexperienced palate.

Moments later, the first of what would end up being almost a dozen small plates of stunningly crafted sushi were placed carefully before us. We started with a white fish, possibly snapper, and then moved onto what I guessed to be scallop, kingfish, squid, salmon, sea urchin roe, salmon roe, and tuna amongst others that I really couldn’t identify, despite Kimura’s increasingly animated efforts to describe. Each piece of sushi was stunningly formed, and every mouthful had me wondering in awe at how it tasted so much better than any I had eaten before. I also noticed how the old chef would take a moment after each plate was served to observe the diners seated along the bar. Interestingly, we didn’t all get the same thing – it was like he was customising the experience for each of us.

The last dish was presented with a particularly proud smile from the chef. While the other introductions had been left to the host and Kimura, this time he addressed me directly.

‘Toro.’ He declared and rubbed his belly with a smile.

Kimura then chimed in with his infectious enthusiasm, ‘This is the most special sushi. Very special.’

The host then explained that ‘toro’ is a fatty cut of tuna, usually taken from the belly and is considered to be the Wagyu equivalent of sushi. So, under the expectant gaze of the chef, Kimura, the host (and probably the other diners too), I carefully placed the single piece of sushi into my mouth. I still recall the sensation of how the tuna melted away. It was rich and remarkably flavoursome; I had never tasted anything like it. My mind had been blown. Observing the wonder in my eyes and broad smile, the audience now clapped and cheered (in a typically quiet Japanese way), and the chef bowed as if to say, ‘You’re welcome.’

Toward the conclusion of the second day of the trade show, Kimura approached me with the evening plans. ‘Tonight, we go to the bath.’

I’m sure I didn’t voice it, though perhaps I did, ‘Sorry, a bath?’

This wasn’t what I was expecting at all and, to be honest, the offer of bathing with Kimura and his son was nothing if not confusing. I smiled hesitantly, and returned a very tentative, ‘OK’ – not sure what else to say.

During a break, I caught up with a few other Australians who were representing various wineries. They had plans to head into Roppongi to hit the bars and invited me to join them. As a naïve twenty-three-year-old, you can imagine which of these two invitations I accepted. Despite his flawless manners, Kimura was clearly disappointed when I told him, and though I was unaware at the time, I am sure he was more than a little offended too.

The final day of the trade show dragged under the weight of my foggy head. Thankfully, and despite his disappointment in my decision of the day prior, Kimura was perfectly amicable throughout. As the day drew to a close, he thanked me profusely for making the effort to come to Japan and gesturing toward the pile of business cards he had collected over the three days, he was clearly pleased – declaring ‘success.’ I was happy for him, and grateful for my fleeting time in Tokyo.

Peering out the window as our plane readied for take-off, I decided that I’d return one day to properly explore this place, and then drifted off to sleep.

Some years later, I chanced upon an article about a Michelin starred Sushi restaurant in Tokyo. This was a must visit destination for any well-travelled foodie, if for no other reason than to watch the master chef at work. The restaurant bore the name of this chef – Jiro. I couldn’t believe it when I saw the photo. That was him! That’s where we ate! I was awestruck. However, my excitement quickly morphed into a sense of embarrassment as I reflected on how oblivious I was at the time. I had no idea just how special that experience was.

I had also since learnt about Japanese bathhouses, and the cultural significance of these places. Kimura had extended an offer to share a deeply traditional and important social experience with me, and I had rejected his generosity in favour of drinking with a bunch of Aussies. I felt ashamed.

Kimura would place one or two more orders for our wine, and then no others. With growing awareness of my ignorance, I blamed myself for this – I must have offended him so. I carried that blame until I discovered some time later that Kimura had, in fact, being sitting on a stockpile of our wines that had been growing for years prior to the trade show. He had simply been too proud and too polite to explain the situation, and kept placing orders to save face, until he could afford to no longer.

Chef Jiro Ono reluctantly retired in 2023 due to poor health. He was 98 years old.

In 2019 I made good on my goal to return to Japan. With the benefit of more time (we visited for ten days) and maturity, my experience was entirely different, and I simply fell in love with the country.

Of the areas we visited, Kyoto was my favourite. There is a unique sense of calm to be found in Japan, even in busy places like Tokyo, but none moreso than I felt in Kyoto. Whether it was wandering the giant bamboo forests of Arashiyama or, on our way to the Fushimi Inari shrine – climbing the four-kilometre-long path through an almost unbroken run of 10,000 orange Torii arches – there was an overwhelming sense of peace and tranquillity everywhere we went. The whole trip had almost a dreamlike quality to it.

When I recount our travels to friends and family, I often say that I’d happily live in Kyoto. The logistical challenges that will almost invariably prevent this from becoming a reality aside, I believe what I am trying to articulate is that deep feeling of calm I found there; not unlike the kind I get when I return home from being away.

I also made a profound realisation during our stay in Kyoto – it happened along a stretch of the Philosopher’s Path (of course!). This is a very beautiful trail that follows a stone canal into northern Kyoto, lined with hundreds of cherry trees that were coincidently in full bloom at the time.

We deviated from the path for lunch and chanced upon a very small ceramics store. At the door we were greeted by an older gentleman who enthusiastically invited us inside. There, he gave us a tour of his work. Despite his broken English and our even more broken Japanese, we drew enough information to learn that he had worked as a potter for over fifty years in this one location. His pottery was beautiful. Clearly this man was a master of his craft – which the prices (unfortunately) reflected. An hour later, we purchased two of his wonderful teacups which was about all we could afford to take with us. We thanked one another and parted ways smiling.

As we sat down to lunch afterwards, the realisation I had wasn’t only about the quality of this man’s work, it was more than that. When I turn my thoughts back to Jiro, all those years ago, the same idea surfaces. And now, at home, holding my Japanese kitchen knife as I prepare dinner (far less skilfully than Jiro), I am struck again by the same concept. Craftsmanship.

I believe the things made or performed with superior skill and love reach out to us in a way that others simply can’t. I love how these two Japanese men I encountered demonstrated the idea that practicing and perfecting one’s craft can occupy a lifetime.

Sometimes I wonder that perhaps in modern society, particularly in the west, we neglect the true value of craftsmanship; not only as consumers but also as business operators – too quickly looking to commercialise and scale up as rapidly as possible.

Perhaps instead we should be focussing on making less, but better. Constantly seeking to refine rather than settling for the status quo or looking for shortcuts. Considering my own craft, this is a guiding line of thought and endless source of inspiration that I refer to often. A gift from Japan.

Kind Regards,
Matt Burton

P.S. If this story lands with you or sparks any memories of your own unlikely wine experiences, please feel free to send me an email – I’d love to hear from you!

You can read previous editions of The Love of Wine on the News & Events page of our website, here.