By Henrik Elden ( Project Manager IT , amateur Chef) Guest post
As a Norwegian father with a deep love for food, family, and travel, I thought I had tasted most of what the world had to offer. Seafood, in particular, runs in our blood — herring, cod, mackerel — all familiar flavors from my coastal upbringing in Bergen. But nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared me for my encounter with fugu sashimi in Tokyo. This was not just another meal. It was an experience that balanced thrill, tradition, and family memory on the edge of a razor-sharp knife.
We were in Japan for a dual-purpose trip — part business, part much-needed family adventure. My wife, Liv, had always dreamed of seeing Tokyo’s cherry blossoms, and our daughter, Emilie, now sixteen, was obsessed with Japanese pop culture. I had business meetings scheduled in Minato and Shibuya, but we made time to experience the spring carnival held just outside Ueno Park. The air was festive, filled with the smell of yakitori smoke and the soft hum of traditional instruments. Amid the food stalls and taiko drums, a sign caught my eye: Fugu Sashimi — From Yamaguchi. My curiosity overpowered my caution.
The Legend and the Risk
Fugu — pufferfish — is both revered and feared in Japan. Prepared improperly, its liver and other organs can release tetrodotoxin, a deadly neurotoxin. There is no antidote. But when prepared by a licensed chef, it is not only safe but celebrated. I had read that Yamaguchi Prefecture is famous for its fugu, particularly the city of Shimonoseki. This wasn’t just any snack at a carnival — this was a centuries-old culinary tradition, one of Japan’s most dangerous delicacies, carefully served in public by a chef trained for years.
Liv looked at me nervously. “Are you sure about this?” she asked. Even Emilie, normally bold, hesitated. But I knew we were in good hands. This wasn’t street food prepared haphazardly; it was part of a formal demonstration, set up with tables and proper preparation, under the supervision of a restaurant whose chef wore his certification like a badge of honor.
The Making of Fugu Sashimi
I asked if we could observe how it was prepared, and to my surprise, we were invited behind the demonstration booth. The chef began with a live tiger pufferfish, placed carefully on a cutting board. Every move was deliberate. The first step was to remove the skin — tough and leathery, peeled away with almost surgical precision.
Next came the most critical part: removing the toxic organs. The chef worked silently, separating the liver and ovaries into a steel disposal tray marked with warning labels. These parts, he explained through a translator, were never to be reused. They are treated as biological waste and incinerated.
Once the toxins were cleared, the chef used a usuba knife — long and thin — to slice the flesh into translucent pieces, so fine they almost fluttered in the breeze. These delicate slices were arranged like a chrysanthemum on a porcelain plate, each petal meticulously placed. The dish, known as tessa, was served with ponzu sauce, grated daikon, and a small portion of momiji oroshi (spicy grated radish), along with thinly sliced scallions.
We were told to dip each piece gently into the ponzu and to eat slowly — fugu is not meant to be wolfed down. It is a dish that commands respect.
The Taste and the Moment
To describe the taste is to describe the absence of taste, at least in the way we expect from rich Nordic fish like salmon or trout. Fugu sashimi is subtle, with a clean and firm texture — a whisper of the sea rather than a shout. Its pleasure is in the refinement, the ceremony, and the knowledge of its risk.
Liv took her first bite hesitantly, her eyes closing. “It’s not what I expected,” she said. “It’s… delicate.”
Emilie, who had been unsure whether she would even try it, finally did. “It’s weirdly good,” she said, dipping another slice.
And I, as I chewed slowly, felt something deeper. It wasn’t just about flavor. It was about participating in something uniquely Japanese — a ritual that embodies their precision, their courage, and their trust in mastery.
Reflections of a Norwegian Abroad
Back home, our seafood traditions are simpler. We salt, we smoke, we grill. But the philosophy behind fugu sashimi taught me something. It’s not just about what’s on the plate, but how it got there — the hands that made it, the rules that protect it, and the culture that cherishes it.
As a father, I was glad my daughter had seen this. In an age of instant food and instant gratification, fugu demands patience, discipline, and appreciation. As a husband, I admired my wife’s willingness to dive into something unknown. And as a man from the fjords of Norway, I left that carnival in Tokyo feeling a little more worldly, a little more respectful of the sea and its secrets.
Our trip gave us many memories: neon-lit streets, quiet temples, conveyor-belt sushi. But that single plate of fugu sashimi from Yamaguchi — prepared by a master, eaten under cherry blossoms — is the one we will never forget.
