January 3, 2024
The floor was sticky, the remnants of cooking oil forcing me to use just a bit more effort than expected to lift my feet. In the back kitchen, a puddle of water was inching its way ever so slowly across the floor, the lonely ice machine haphazardly placed in the middle of the space most likely the cause of its existence. The walls were a bit drab, perhaps exacerbated by the industrial lighting. The centre wall was tiled, a dull grey, and the others painted a muted yellow and red. Holes in the wall and ceiling exposed grey and white circuitry, wires drifting lazily in the air. The space was devoid of any amenities.
In normal circumstances, this may have been concerning, but today was not normal by any measure.
With every gesture and every word, an electric undercurrent of excitement emanated from Hiroha-san as we walked through the space.
His search for a suitable spot had begun a year before the closure of C’est Japon à Suisha, and had only intensified afterwards with the addition of his building partner, Eric Charbonneau to the team. While initially focused on potential locations in the downtown core, they rarely had the gas lines for the additional dishes he wanted to make. He was forced to expand his search criteria to Ottawa's suburbs. Every so often, he would receive tips from people in his network and dutifully follow up. And finally, after a few false alarms and a few occasions of being beaten to potential spots in the preceding months, Hiroha-san had just signed the paperwork for the former East Pak Indian Cuisine in Orleans.
Here, in an unassuming street replete with equally unassuming strip malls, Hiroha-san would establish Nagi Sushi, his vision of an unpretentious neighbourhood sushi-ya.
By the time I stepped into the space on January 3, Hiroha-san had already finalized the basic design with Eric despite only owning the space for three days.
The kitchen, a long and thin space along the back of the restaurant, didn't require any major alterations, with only the electric and gas connections to be completed.
Hiroha-san, with the intention of putting forward a fish-forward menu and recognizing that other restaurants in Ottawa could do other Japanese culinary stalwarts such as ramen, steak, udon, had kept his kitchen equipment relatively simple with the purchase of a deep fryer and a six burner stove.
An old rice cooker was the only kitchen implement that came from C'est Japon à Suisha.
An ice maker, standing in the middle of a slowly expanding puddle of water. This area of the kitchen was the only area where the floor wasn't sticky from oil. Hiroha-san remarked that a deep clean would be necessary.
Above, a dishwashing sink, the furnace and the standing freezer from left to right at the end of the thin kitchen space. Unlike C'est Japon à Suisha, there were no dishwashers and Hiroha-san had no future plans to purchase one.
The wall separating the dining space and the kitchen would be rebuilt. A new door would be installed to improve the flow of movement between the dining space and the kitchen.
It was admittedly a much smaller space than C'est Japon à Suisha. As we walked the space, Hiroha-san pointed to imaginary tables and customers. By his count, the space could accommodate approximately twenty people.
He pivoted to a portion of the dining space that shone brightest in his mind. And that was the sushi bar, where he would stand each night and become the itamae with a serious no non-sense personality that contrasted greatly with the man that I was slowly getting to know, the one who had an infectious smile and a tendency to make silly jokes. At this imaginary sushi bar, he would perform his little bit of theater every night.
The freezers stood forlornly in the middle of the dining space, the stand-in for the sushi bar. No matter, his enthusiasm was all-encompassing and for a brief moment, we envisioned ourselves in the future. Hiroha-san, in the blue happi of his classic itamae attire (or as he joked, perhaps a black t-shirt with an Asahi beer sponsorship) and myself, sitting in front of him and the phantom taste of that fatty salmon in my mouth.
Construction would start in three weeks.
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