From sea to plate in Toyama: a journey in search of sushi's origins

He moves like a dancer, light-footed and nimble, gliding along the polished expanse of the wooden bar area. Naruki Takimoto, chef-patron at his eponymous sushi restaurant in Himi city, is slicing fish for my omakase sushi menu — and it’s as much performance as it is dinner. He fans slivers of beet-red maguro tuna and brushes soy sauce over shrimp, handling morsels as delicately as precious gems. And in a way they are, because Toyama Bay’s fish is considered the crown jewel of the seas.

Ask any Japanese person what makes Toyama special and they’ll say the same thing: seafood. Caught between the soaring Japan Alps and sparkling coast on the northern hem of Honshu, this small pocket has some of the most dramatic landscapes in the country. Mineral-rich snowmelt trickles down from mountains into Toyama Bay, which just offshore plummets to depths of almost 4,000ft. This geographic recipe creates the ideal conditions for a breadth of aquatic life and around 500 of the 800 species found in the entire Sea of Japan inhabit local waters. Through considered fishing methods — small boats, strictly capped in number and passive ‘fixed nets’ where fish essentially wander in — the prefecture’s bounty feeds appetites throughout the country. Much of it will be sold at Tokyo’s Toyosu Market and served in lauded Michelin-starred sushiya restaurants. 

But of course, everything tastes most delicious at its source. The octopus and whelk Takimoto serves me were landed only a few hours ago at a market less than a mile away; the cuttlefish and seabass too. The proximity makes it astoundingly good value. This crafted meal by the Toyama-born, Tokyo-and-London-trained chef costs half of what you regularly pay in the Japanese capital, despite its remarkable 15 courses (from 15,000/£85pp). Savouring a mouthful of squid nigiri, dressed with a squeeze of sudachi citrus, I don’t think I’ve tasted seafood that’s fresher.

That is, until the next morning. Rising in darkness, my guide, Kyoko Takano, and I drive down to the pier by Toyama’s New Port. Today we’re going glass shrimp fishing. A cluster of small restaurants and a fish auction hall sit in stillness; by the time we return in a few hours it’ll be buzzing with market agents and grocery buyers. But for now there is nothing but the warm glow of boats huddled by the dock and stoic herons watching from the rocks. On one small ship, a six-person crew is filling buckets of ice in anticipation of a future catch. With a nod from the captain, we climb on board. 

Tiny glass shrimps — so called as they’re near-transparent when first caught — are one of the highlights of Toyama Bay and it’s the only thing this specially licensed boat will fish for until the season ends in autumn. We slide silently out of the harbour, on millpond waters so pale and reflective in the white-cloud dawn it’s as if we’re cutting through cream. A coil burner smoulders in the ship’s squeezed interior and, on deck, coffee is sipped in silence. But when our captain — led by radar, a radio and his intuition — finds a promising spot, the crew kick into a well-oiled choreography. Nets plunge, ropes loosen, cranks turn. We all wait quietly as the nets drift a thousand feet down to where the shrimp feed. 

After another silent hour, as the sun is beginning to burn off the cloudy veil obscuring the nearby mountains, nets are slowly reeled up. Looking over the edge of the boat, I see a glinting mass of pink and silver. The captain scoops up a handful, then holds out a single shrimp, inviting me to taste its sweet freshness. In the light of morning, it shimmers iridescent, pearl-like — my own precious gem from Toyama Bay.