I remember the first time I saw Jiro Ono massage an octopus. It sounds weird to say out loud, but if you’ve seen David Gelb's 2011 masterpiece, you know exactly what I’m talking about. In the film, one of Jiro’s apprentices explains that they used to massage the octopus for about 30 minutes. Jiro, ever the perfectionist, decided that wasn't enough. Now they do it for 40 to 50 minutes. All just to ensure the texture is soft enough to melt.
That is Jiro Dreams of Sushi in a nutshell.
It isn't really a movie about food. I mean, sure, the cinematography makes the nigiri look like polished jewels, but the "sushi" part is almost a secondary character. The real story is about a man who has done the exact same thing, in the exact same place, for over 70 years and still thinks he hasn't quite nailed it yet. It’s a terrifying and beautiful look at what it actually takes to be the best in the world at something.
Most people who watch it for the first time are shocked by the setting. You expect a world-class, three-Michelin-star restaurant to be in a penthouse or a sprawling estate. Instead, Sukiyabashi Jiro is tucked away in a Tokyo subway station. It’s a ten-seat basement bar next to a commuter line. There isn't even a bathroom inside the restaurant. And yet, for years, you had to book months in advance just for a twenty-minute meal that cost hundreds of dollars.
The Myth of the "Shokunin" and Why We Get It Wrong
We use the word "craftsman" in English, but the Japanese term shokunin carries a much heavier weight. Jiro Ono embodies this. People often watch Jiro Dreams of Sushi and think it’s a manual for success. They see the discipline and the repetition and think, "Okay, I just need to work harder."
Honestly? That’s missing the point.
Jiro’s life is kind of a tragedy if you look at it through a modern work-life balance lens. He admits in the film that he wasn't much of a father when his sons were growing up. He was at the shop before they woke up and didn't get home until they were asleep. There’s a heartbreaking moment where he mentions that one of his sons once saw him at home and thought he was a stranger.
That's the price of the three stars.
The shokunin spirit isn't about "hustle culture." It’s about a spiritual obligation to your trade. You see this when Jiro talks about his dreams—literally dreaming of sushi recipes. He isn't looking for a vacation. He’s looking for a better way to slice tuna. While the world is obsessed with "scaling" businesses and finding "passive income," Jiro is over here in a basement, 90-some years old, still looking at the quality of the rice vinegar.
What Jiro Dreams of Sushi Teaches About Business
If you’re watching this from a business perspective, the most interesting parts aren't the kitchen scenes. It's the relationships with the vendors.
Think about the tuna dealer. Or the rice dealer. These guys are specialists who refuse to sell to just anyone. The rice dealer famously said he wouldn't sell a specific type of rice to the Grand Hyatt because they wouldn't know how to cook it. He only sells it to Jiro.
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This creates a "circle of excellence."
- Jiro only buys from the best.
- The vendors only sell to the best.
- The apprentices only learn from the best.
It’s an ecosystem of high standards. In the film, we see the tuna auction at Tsukiji (which has since moved to Toyosu, but the vibe remains the same). The expert buyers know exactly which fish is "the one." They aren't looking for a bargain; they are looking for the absolute peak of quality. This contradicts the modern business instinct to cut costs and maximize margins. Jiro’s margin is thin because his standards are impossibly high.
The Apprenticeship: Ten Years to Cook an Egg
You can't talk about Jiro Dreams of Sushi without mentioning the tamago (egg omelet) story.
One of the apprentices, Mizutani, tells the camera how he spent years trying to make the perfect egg sponge. He made hundreds of them. Thousands. Jiro kept rejecting them. "Not good enough," he’d say. When the apprentice finally made one that Jiro approved of, the young man actually cried.
He had been an apprentice for ten years.
Can you imagine that today? Most people quit a job if they don't get a promotion in eighteen months. In Jiro’s world, you don't even get to touch the fish for the first several years. You spend your days squeezing towels. It’s a brutal, repetitive, and deeply traditional way of learning that seems almost alien to us now.
The Complicated Legacy of Yoshikazu Ono
While Jiro is the star, the real emotional weight of the documentary falls on his eldest son, Yoshikazu.
Imagine being the heir to the greatest sushi chef in history. Yoshikazu is in his 60s during the film, still working under his father. He’s the one who does the grueling morning trips to the fish market. He’s the one who manages the day-to-day. Yet, everyone knows that as long as Jiro is alive, Yoshikazu will always be in that shadow.
There’s a common misconception that Yoshikazu isn't as good as his father. In reality, many critics argue that the quality of the restaurant stayed at its peak because of Yoshikazu’s management. But the "Jiro" brand is so strong that the son becomes a supporting character in his own life. It’s a fascinating look at Japanese succession and the weight of familial expectation.
Why Sukiyabashi Jiro Lost Its Michelin Stars
This is the part that catches people off guard. If you look at the Michelin Guide today, you won't find Sukiyabashi Jiro.
Did the quality drop? Did Jiro lose his touch?
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Nope.
In 2019, the Michelin Guide dropped the restaurant not because the food changed, but because it became too exclusive. They have a rule: if the general public can't make a reservation, the restaurant can't be in the guide. Because Jiro’s shop stopped taking reservations from the public (you basically have to be a regular, have a high-end hotel concierge book it, or have a "connection"), it became a private club.
Michelin said, "We noted that Sukiyabashi Jiro does not accept reservations from the general public, which makes it out of our scope."
It’s the ultimate irony. Jiro became so famous for his pursuit of perfection that the fame itself eventually made him "un-rankable."
The Impact of the Film on Food Culture
Before David Gelb made this movie, food documentaries were mostly about travel or cooking tips. Jiro Dreams of Sushi changed the genre. It used slow-motion shots set to Philip Glass’s minimalist music to turn food into high art. It influenced everything from Chef’s Table to the way we take photos of our dinner on Instagram.
But it also had a darker side.
The "Jiro effect" contributed to the global obsession with high-end omakase. It made tuna prices skyrocket. It turned sushi—which started as a fast-food snack for laborers in old Edo—into a status symbol for the global elite. Jiro himself expresses concern in the film about overfishing. He notes that the quality and size of the wild tuna are decreasing every year. He knows that the very thing he loves is becoming a luxury that might not exist in the same way for the next generation.
How to Apply "Jiro-ism" to Your Own Life
You don't have to be a sushi chef to take something away from this story. The philosophy Jiro lives by is actually quite simple, though incredibly hard to execute.
- Fall in love with the process, not the result. If you only care about the Michelin stars or the money, you’ll burn out after year three. Jiro loves the shari (rice). He loves the knife.
- Repetition is the path to mastery. There are no shortcuts. You have to do the work. Even the boring stuff. Especially the boring stuff.
- Refine your tools. Whether it’s your computer, your kitchen knife, or your workout gear, keep it in perfect condition. Respect the instruments of your trade.
- Self-criticism is fuel. Jiro says, "I do the same thing over and over, improving bit by bit. There is always a yearning to achieve more." The moment you think you’ve "arrived," you’ve already started to fail.
The Reality Check
Look, let’s be real. Jiro Ono is a polarizing figure. Some people see him as an inspiration; others see a man who sacrificed his family and his happiness for a piece of fish. Both things can be true at the same time.
The documentary doesn't try to give you a "happy ending" where Jiro goes on vacation. It ends where it began: with Jiro at the counter, waiting for the next customer.
If you want to experience the spirit of the film without the $500 price tag, there are plenty of shokunin in other fields. Whether it’s a cobbler in Florence or a woodworker in Vermont, that level of obsession is universal. Jiro Dreams of Sushi is just the most beautiful window we have into that mindset.
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If you haven't watched it in a few years, it's worth a re-watch. You'll notice different things as you get older. You might sympathize more with the sons. You might feel the weight of the repetition differently. But you will definitely leave the couch wanting a really, really good piece of tuna.
Actionable Next Steps:
- Audit your "octopus massage": What is the one task in your professional life you’ve been rushing? Try slowing down and doubling the time you spend on that specific detail this week.
- Watch the "spiritual successor": If you loved the cinematography, watch Chef's Table on Netflix. David Gelb, the director of Jiro, created it, and you can see Jiro's DNA in every episode.
- Seek out "Shokunin" locally: Find a local business—a bakery, a tailor, or a mechanic—where the owner is actually on the floor doing the work. Support the people who still care about the "boring" details.