What I Think About When I Welcome Families with Children to My Sushi Class in Tokyo
When a family walks into my sushi studio in Tokyo—parents, kids, sometimes two teenagers still fighting off jet lag—most people see the start of a fun sushi lesson.
I see something a little different.
I see a father who has carved out one precious week from a busy life.
I see children who will remember this trip long after they forget which shrine was which.
And I see a few short hours that I must turn into something worth traveling across the world for.
In many cases, I also know this:
I might be the very first Japanese person this family has a real conversation with.
That thought quietly shapes everything I do.
1. A 12-year-old boy in Boston
Whenever I receive a booking from a family, my mind often goes back more than 30 years.
I was 12 years old when my own family visited the United States.
We went to Boston and New York. It was my first time in America.
What I remember most clearly is not a famous building or a museum.
It is a street performance in Boston.
There was a drum set and about ten dancers.
The drummer played with fierce, live rhythm.
The dancers moved with explosive energy, jumping and spinning on the pavement.
To my 12-year-old eyes, it felt like “this is America”—
freedom, confidence, joy, all happening right there in the street.
I can still see it.
Only much later did I realize:
One powerful experience in childhood can stay with you for decades.
It becomes a small “origin story” inside your life.
Since that trip, I’ve never been back to America or to Boston.
But now, as an adult, I welcome many American families here in Tokyo.
Every time I do, a part of me thinks:
“One day, I’d like to visit America again.”
And because I carry that feeling, I also hope that the children I host today will grow up and think:
“One day, I want to go back to Japan.”
That is the kind of memory I would like to help create.
2. Seeing today’s kids as tomorrow’s returning guests
When I meet a family at the station or welcome them into my studio,
I don’t just see “kids on vacation”.
I see future adults who will, many years from now:
- decide where to travel,
- choose what they believe about other countries,
- tell their own children stories about “when we went to Japan”.
They might not remember every temple or every restaurant.
But they may remember:
- how a Japanese chef tied their apron,
- how the rice felt in their hands,
- how someone in Tokyo listened to them and took their questions seriously.
That is why, when I host families, I pay special attention to the children.
I assume their parents feel something like this:
“I want my kids to have a truly special experience on this trip.”
I understand that wish very personally,
because I still carry my own childhood memory of Boston.
3. Adjusting the day to the child in front of me
Before a family arrives, I always ask a few simple questions:
- How old are your children?
- What do they like to eat?
- Are they shy, energetic, curious, or cautious?
From their answers, I build a rough map in my mind.
A 9-year-old who loves salmon and Pokémon
is different from a 15-year-old who follows Japanese sushi chefs on YouTube.
A child who is nervous about raw fish needs a different approach
than one who wants to try everything.
In a group tour, it’s almost impossible to respond to all of these differences.
In a private class, we can change the plan minute by minute.
At the market, I decide:
- Do we stay a little longer here because the kids are fascinated?
- Do we move on because they’re getting tired?
In the kitchen, I think:
- Does this child need an easy first success?
- Is this teenager ready for a more difficult cut?
I ask small questions, listen to their answers,
and gently invite them to become the main characters of the day:
“This is my special nigiri. I made it for you.”
That is the moment I quietly wait for.
4. Being “the first Japanese person” they really talk to
In many cases, I am the first Japanese person my guests truly speak with.
They may point at photos on menus in restaurants,
ride trains without speaking to anyone,
and have only brief, practical exchanges with hotel staff.
So the hours we spend together can become something different:
- a chance to ask what Japanese people really think about food, family, and work,
- a chance to see how we joke, how we explain,
and how we relate to children and parents.
While we walk through the market or shape sushi in the kitchen,
the conversation often goes far beyond recipes.
We talk about:
- how Japanese families eat at home,
- what I myself loved as a child,
- what it’s like to build a life around food and guiding.
I hope that when they go home and someone asks:
“So, what were Japanese people like?”
they won’t answer with a stereotype.
They will remember a real person they cooked with, talked with, and laughed with.
And maybe, 20 or 30 years later,
one of the children will say to their own family:
“When I was a kid, we went to Japan and made sushi with a chef in Tokyo.
I want to go back there someday.”
In that sense, every family class is, for me, also a quiet invitation:
“Please come back to Japan when you grow up.”
5. The quiet wish behind every family booking
On the surface, I am a sushi instructor and a guide.
My role is to teach technique, share knowledge,
and help families enjoy a good meal they made themselves.
But behind that, I am always thinking about something simpler:
- Did this father get a chance to stop managing and just enjoy watching his children?
- Did the children feel seen and encouraged, not judged or rushed?
- Did this family feel, even for a few hours, as if they had a friend in Tokyo?
Many families write kind reviews after the class.
They mention a “clean and comfortable kitchen”, “great information”,
or that a private group “was a better fit” for them.
When I read those lines, I also read between them:
- They felt safe.
- They felt cared for.
- Their limited time in Japan was used well.
That is what I think about when I welcome families with children.
Not only:
“How can I teach them sushi?”
But also:
“How can I turn these few hours into a story their children will remember—
the way I still remember the drums and dancers on that street in Boston?”
If you are a busy parent planning a short trip to Japan,
and you want at least one day that feels like that kind of story,
then that is the day I hope to share with your family in Tokyo.