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Authors: Trevor Corson
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into quitting. When she returned for the next class he was irate.
‘What did I say?!’ he screamed. ‘What are doing here? You should not be here!’
Tracy complained to Toshi. The things the instructor was saying were illegal in America. Toshi shrugged and said there was nothing he could do—the instructor was a typical Japanese sushi chef; that’s the way they were. Tracy would just have to deal with it.
Nearly every day, the man yelled at her. ‘You should not be here!’ He told Tracy that his reputation would be ruined if anyone found out he was teaching a woman. He brought her to tears regularly. But she kept coming to class, and she learned a lot from him.
After graduation, Tracy walked into one Beverly Hills sushi restaurant after another, asking for a job. Everyone laughed at her. ‘There is no such thing,’ they said. ‘Get out!’
Tracy heard from a friend about a new Asian-themed nightclub about to open in Beverly Hills, called Tsunami. It would have a sushi bar. But it wasn’t a Japanese-run operation. The man in charge was Mark Fleischman, a slick nightclub owner who had run Studio 54 in New York. Tracy arranged a meeting with Fleischman. He looked her up and down.
‘So, you want to be a sushi chef,’ he said. ‘Okay, that’s going to be great. We’ll put you in a little number, put you by the window. See this hot chick with the knife?’
‘No, no,’ Tracy said, ‘I’m a real sushi chef.’ She had left acting to escape all that.
But competition was stiff and gimmicks were in vogue—tap-dancing sushi chefs, chefs who sang cabaret and performed line dances behind the sushi bar, even sushi served atop naked women.
A week later Fleischman introduced Tracy to the Japanese chef he’d hired. The Japanese chef looked at Tracy, then at Fleischman.
‘What do you mean she’s going to work here?’
‘Yes,’ Fleischman said, ‘she’s going to work with you. She’s going to be our star!’
‘I quit,’ the chef said. He walked out.
Fleischman talked him into staying.
Tracy had a conversation with the chef. ‘I don’t know what the hell is with this female sushi chef thing,’ Tracy said, ‘but if I’m horrible and you can’t deal with me in a month, I’ll leave.’
He glared her. ‘Okay.’
When Tsunami opened for business, Tracy refused to wear the suggestive outfit that Fleischman wanted her to wear. That didn’t stop Fleischman from stirring up a media frenzy.
‘We have the only female sushi chef in the world!’ she remembers him saying, as news reporters snapped her picture. The Japanese chef stood aside and glowered.
Every night the club was packed. Tracy made sushi like a mad-woman. At first she asked the Japanese chef questions, but he told her to shut up and just watch him. So she did—for a year. And she learned a lot. Tracy went on to run her own sushi bar, at a restaurant called Rika’s on the Sunset Strip, and publish her own sushi cookbook.
Other women graduated from the California Sushi Academy and went on to successful careers in sushi. A Venice Beach native named Nikki Gilbert lived in Japan and returned to L.A. to found a sushi catering and teaching company called Sushi Girl. A tough Israeli named Tali Sever endured discrimination during a short sushi apprenticeship in Japan, then returned to L.A. and helped develop an American-style sushi cafe—a sort of Starbucks of sushi—called Sushi Central. An African-American woman named Marisa Baggett graduated and became head chef of a sushi bar called Do in Memphis, Tennessee.
Then, in January 2005, a woman arrived at the academy unlike any Toshi or his chefs had ever encountered.
Fie Kruse was one of the most beautiful women Toshi and his chefs had ever met, and her beauty could not have been more un-Japanese. She was Danish—shapely and tall, with large blue eyes and shockingly blond hair. And yet she seemed to act entirely Japanese. Fie was sweet, soft-spoken, and deferential. The Japanese chefs
‘What did I say?!’ he screamed. ‘What are doing here? You should not be here!’
Tracy complained to Toshi. The things the instructor was saying were illegal in America. Toshi shrugged and said there was nothing he could do—the instructor was a typical Japanese sushi chef; that’s the way they were. Tracy would just have to deal with it.
Nearly every day, the man yelled at her. ‘You should not be here!’ He told Tracy that his reputation would be ruined if anyone found out he was teaching a woman. He brought her to tears regularly. But she kept coming to class, and she learned a lot from him.
After graduation, Tracy walked into one Beverly Hills sushi restaurant after another, asking for a job. Everyone laughed at her. ‘There is no such thing,’ they said. ‘Get out!’
Tracy heard from a friend about a new Asian-themed nightclub about to open in Beverly Hills, called Tsunami. It would have a sushi bar. But it wasn’t a Japanese-run operation. The man in charge was Mark Fleischman, a slick nightclub owner who had run Studio 54 in New York. Tracy arranged a meeting with Fleischman. He looked her up and down.
‘So, you want to be a sushi chef,’ he said. ‘Okay, that’s going to be great. We’ll put you in a little number, put you by the window. See this hot chick with the knife?’
‘No, no,’ Tracy said, ‘I’m a real sushi chef.’ She had left acting to escape all that.
But competition was stiff and gimmicks were in vogue—tap-dancing sushi chefs, chefs who sang cabaret and performed line dances behind the sushi bar, even sushi served atop naked women.
A week later Fleischman introduced Tracy to the Japanese chef he’d hired. The Japanese chef looked at Tracy, then at Fleischman.
‘What do you mean she’s going to work here?’
‘Yes,’ Fleischman said, ‘she’s going to work with you. She’s going to be our star!’
‘I quit,’ the chef said. He walked out.
Fleischman talked him into staying.
Tracy had a conversation with the chef. ‘I don’t know what the hell is with this female sushi chef thing,’ Tracy said, ‘but if I’m horrible and you can’t deal with me in a month, I’ll leave.’
He glared her. ‘Okay.’
When Tsunami opened for business, Tracy refused to wear the suggestive outfit that Fleischman wanted her to wear. That didn’t stop Fleischman from stirring up a media frenzy.
‘We have the only female sushi chef in the world!’ she remembers him saying, as news reporters snapped her picture. The Japanese chef stood aside and glowered.
Every night the club was packed. Tracy made sushi like a mad-woman. At first she asked the Japanese chef questions, but he told her to shut up and just watch him. So she did—for a year. And she learned a lot. Tracy went on to run her own sushi bar, at a restaurant called Rika’s on the Sunset Strip, and publish her own sushi cookbook.
Other women graduated from the California Sushi Academy and went on to successful careers in sushi. A Venice Beach native named Nikki Gilbert lived in Japan and returned to L.A. to found a sushi catering and teaching company called Sushi Girl. A tough Israeli named Tali Sever endured discrimination during a short sushi apprenticeship in Japan, then returned to L.A. and helped develop an American-style sushi cafe—a sort of Starbucks of sushi—called Sushi Central. An African-American woman named Marisa Baggett graduated and became head chef of a sushi bar called Do in Memphis, Tennessee.
Then, in January 2005, a woman arrived at the academy unlike any Toshi or his chefs had ever encountered.
Fie Kruse was one of the most beautiful women Toshi and his chefs had ever met, and her beauty could not have been more un-Japanese. She was Danish—shapely and tall, with large blue eyes and shockingly blond hair. And yet she seemed to act entirely Japanese. Fie was sweet, soft-spoken, and deferential. The Japanese chefs
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