The shutters roll up with a groan at dawn, and the heartbeat of Nishiki Market begins—not with noise,
but with the silent precision of an old man slipping on his apron, laying out the day’s catch. His name is Ojii-san Sato, though most simply call him Jiisan, or bow slightly as they pass—out of habit, out of respect.
He’s worked this stall for over 40 years, before the tourists came with cameras and curiosity, when it was just locals buying shucked uni, silver-skinned aji, and live ika that blinked in shallow trays.
Now, his hands move like clockwork: the quick flick of a knife scaling sardines, the delicate lift of an octopus head, still glistening from the morning haul, the way he arranges ice like a frame around the soft orange gleam of salmon roe. His apron is stained. His rubber boots cracked. But there’s dignity in every movement.
At 11 a.m., the market buzz thickens. Younger vendors shout. Plastic bags rustle. Sea mist and soy smoke fill the air. But Jiisan works steadily, cutting, weighing, wrapping, as if the ocean speaks only to him. And when someone buys the last cut of toro, he gives a small bow, slides the tray away, and begins preparing the next.