Roles vs Rolls: A Sushi School Story
lessons on belonging plus trying hojicha
Dear Sensei,
It was the kind of morning that made people fall in love with LA—sunny with impossibly perfect blue skies. But I couldn’t enjoy it. Walking to sushi school on my first day, my mind was filled with too many what-ifs, my feet too heavy with anticipation to appreciate the beautiful morning. I had imagined sushi chefs as culinary monks—silent, precise, dedicated to their craft with almost religious devotion. And while I so desperately wanted to become one, I wasn’t sure if someone like me, so impulsive, uncertain, and unrefined belonged.
Inside the school, a long metal table lined with cutting boards and neatly folded towels sat in the middle of the room. Spotless cooking ranges lined one wall while a storage area with pantry shelves and sparkling refrigerator doors could have easily passed for a small, but well stocked specialty grocery store.
I kept to myself, hoping I could somehow fade into the background. But there was no use. Our uniforms—stark white jackets, pants, and stiff hats—seemed to make me glow in contrast, a reminder that I’d never blend in. I was always going to stand out. I was the only Black student and maybe the only Black student the school had ever had. I fidgeted with my jacket. Though the cotton fabric was nice and thick, it felt like everyone could see right through it and right through me.
Sensei, you stood at the front of the room still and expressionless. Behind thick black glasses, your stare was sharp enough to cut through any fish or student’s confidence.
I hardly dared to breathe, Sensei, as you peered over your glasses at the students closest to you—first me, then then Jokester-san, the young American across from me. He shifted constantly with nervous energy and offered joke after joke he miscalculated for being funny. Sensei, without breaking your stare, you simply said, “Move.” A hush fell over the classroom while Assistant Sensei, whom I could have sworn had a secret smirk on his face, ushered Jokester-san to another spot.
You established right then what was required of us: structure, decorum, precision, absolute control. This was going to be my life for the next few months. Was this standard and level of perfection something I could live up to? I decided that if I couldn’t be perfect, I would try hard work and relentless dedication, both of which I got to show right away. When Assistant Sensei asked if anyone wanted to stay a few hours to help with a catering project, my classmates were eager to head out for the day. I stayed behind as the lone volunteer.
I immediately began practicing new lessons learned, bowing as sushi chefs filed in, moving with a quiet confidence I hoped to one day embody. I didn’t understand half the things they were preparing, but I didn’t care. I lost track of time, filling containers, squeezing sauces into bottles, and happily doing whatever menial task I was assigned.
I was in the zone, when a voice interrupted me. “Come take a break. Let’s go get some coffee,” Assistant Sensei said. He must have sensed my hesitation because he added, “Everyone takes a break.” It wasn’t a suggestion—it was mandatory.
As we headed outside, I hoped the coffee place wouldn’t be too expensive. To my surprise, instead of a coffee shop we walked just two doors down and right into the lobby of an extended-stay hotel. Without hesitation, Assistant-Sensei headed for the coffee station—clearly meant for paying guests—and poured himself a cup. He also helped himself to a freshly baked cookie and nudged me with an elbow, “You can have two.”
I hesitated but the grumble in my stomach had me following his lead. He nodded at the hotel staff who waved with a smile as we left. Later, I’d learn why: Assistant-Sensei often brought over sushi for them. There was an understanding. “Don’t tell your classmates,” he warned. “If everybody starts coming over, they’ll cut us off.”
On the stroll back, I nearly dropped my coffee when we approached the other sushi chefs. Inside the school, the air had been still, lightly perfumed with vinegar and fish, every movement controlled. But out here? Laughter was loose and curled into the air with every wisp of smoke. The same hands that had precisely sliced sashimi now passed a joint with just as much ease.
One of them caught my eye and, without hesitation, held it out to me. “It’s a compliment,” Assistant Sensei muttered. “They don’t usually share.”
I shook my head in polite refusal.
“They respect you,” Assistant Sensei continued. “You stayed late. Didn’t complain. Didn’t ask to touch sushi your first day. That’s rare.”
That day, I came ready to learn how to be a sushi chef, convinced I had to fit myself into the image of one. Instead, my pristine image of the sushi chef shattered, and in its place, something messier, something much more real, took shape. Becoming a sushi chef felt like something I could actually reach. It felt like a club I could join. In that stolen moment of coffee, cookies, and smoke, I understood—belonging wasn’t about perfection at all. And for the first time that day, I wasn’t worrying about standing out. I wasn’t questioning whether I belonged. I had done the work. I had shown up. And in return, I had been seen.
Back inside, decorum was restored and outside felt like a distant or even imagined memory. As the last food items were packed and loaded onto the catering van, Assistant Sensei asked “Do you want to go with us?”
Of course I wanted to go! “Who is this event for?" I asked curiously.
“Big names, big money” he said vaguely, with a half smile. “Just don’t drop anything expensive.”
Have you tried hojicha?
When I need an afternoon pick-me-up these days, I usually reach for an iced matcha latte. But lately, I’ve been seeing hojicha everywhere, and I had to give it a try. Turns out, it’s mellow, toasty, and just the right amount of indulgent.
Here’s the quick spiel—hojicha is roasted green tea, and in its powdered form, you can use it just like matcha for lattes, baked goods, and even savory dishes. I’ve been on a hojicha kick lately (more on that later this month). But if you’re curious now, keep reading to learn more and get a recipe for a simple but refreshing Iced Hojicha Latte!
What is hojicha?
Hojicha (say HOH-jee-cha) is a Japanese green tea that’s been roasted over charcoal, giving it a warm, reddish-brown hue and a much milder flavor than typical green teas. Unlike other Japanese teas, which are only steamed, the added roasting process softens any grassy notes and lowers the caffeine content.
Hojicha comes in loose-leaf and powdered forms. I love the convenience of the powder—it whisks up quickly for drinks and is easy to incorporate into recipes.
What does it tastes like?
I’ve seen hojicha described as “smoky,” and honestly, that made me hesitate to give it a try. But to my surprise, I didn’t find it smoky at all! Instead, I found it smooth, toasty, and slightly nutty, with a cocoa-like richness. I like to think of it as matcha’s chill, caramelized cousin.
Flavor pairings
Hojicha plays well with a wide range of flavors. Here are some of my favorite pairings:
Savory: Roasted nuts, miso, soy sauce, black sesame, tahini
Sweet: Chocolate, caramel, maple, kinako (roasted soybean flour), brown sugar, warm spices (cinnamon, ginger)
Fruity: Figs, citrus
I’ve been having fun experimenting with hojicha—whisking it into lattes, baking it into all sorts of treats, and even blending it into a miso dressing. It’s much more versatile than I expected, and I’m excited to share some of my favorite ways to use it later this month!
Iced Hojicha Latte
Ingredients:
1 ½ tsp hojicha powder
2 Tablespoons hot water (about 175°F)
⅔ cup milk of choice, or more to taste
2 teaspoons sweetener, or more to taste (Maple syrup is my favorite.)
Ice
Instructions:
Whisk hojicha powder into warm water until fully dissolved.
Fill a glass with ice cubes.
Add milk and sweetener.
Pour over the hojicha and stir.