‘Before Doubting Others, Doubt Yourself. Who Can Truly Say a Dish Isn’t What It Used to Be?’

In every issue of Pen, the Naoki Prize-winning author Satoshi Ogawa presents a new essay in his series ‘A Non-Conformist’s Guide to Surviving Society’. In this series, Ogawa reflects on the often eccentric strategies he devises to navigate life’s everyday challenges. Below is the eighth installment, ‘Self-Judgment’.

I’ve never had much patience for people who call themselves ‘gourmets.’ Nor do I feel warmer toward so-called ‘connoisseurs.’ Whenever someone declares, ‘I’m a gourmet,’ I don’t lash out, but I can’t help a flicker of irritation.

If someone simply says, ‘I enjoy good food,’ I have no objection. I enjoy it too. But the word ‘gourmet’ seems to carry an implicit claim: the right to judge what is good and what is not. It’s not so different from comedy—saying ‘I like humor’ is harmless, but announcing ‘I’m funny’ provokes the same reaction.

When I was a student, I worked a part-time job alongside an older colleague who had a reputation as a gourmet. For me, self-proclaiming the title was intolerable, but if others said it of you, I could accept that. I often joined him at his favorite restaurants. Personally, I have few demands when it comes to food—most things taste good to me. At every outing, I would unfailingly say, ‘This is delicious!’

One day, we went to a ramen shop he often frequented. At lunchtime, the line stretched far outside. He sighed, ‘It never used to be this crowded,’ and we waited. After half an hour, we finally sat down and ordered the house-recommended ‘special ramen’.

When my bowl arrived, I took a bite and, as usual, exclaimed, ‘This is so good!’ And I meant it—I could have eaten endlessly if there had been no line. My colleague, however, sipped the broth, tasted the noodles, and muttered, ‘It’s gone downhill. Maybe they’ve grown complacent now that they’re popular.’

The remark annoyed me. Perhaps the food hadn’t changed at all—perhaps it was his palate that had. The owner surely knew more about ramen than either of us, and thought about it every single day. Yes, flavors evolve over time, but to declare ‘the quality has declined’ struck me as arrogant. I didn’t say so aloud. I only replied, ‘Maybe… but I think it’s great.’

Since then, I’ve been wary of people who insist a dish isn’t as good as before. It’s natural to prefer what one tasted on a previous visit, but that’s a matter of perception. It doesn’t prove the restaurant has slipped. Maybe our own tastes have shifted. Maybe our memory has gilded the past. Maybe the chef’s choices simply diverge from our own preferences.

The same holds true for novels. Sometimes I feel a writer’s earlier work was stronger. But I resist concluding that the author has ‘lost their touch’ or is ‘in decline.’ As a novelist myself, I know every book is written in the hope of surpassing the last. Sometimes it succeeds, sometimes it doesn’t—it’s a question of taste. No novel will ever please everyone.

What matters is to ask ourselves whether we truly have the ability to judge the ‘decline’ of a dish, a book, or anything at all.

If you insist on calling yourself a gourmet, at least do so with self-awareness. As for me, I’ll remain simply a lover of good food—and of good literature.

About the author

Satoshi Ogawa was born in Chiba Prefecture in 1986. He made his literary debut in 2015 with This Side of Eutronica (Yūtoronika no Kochiragawa, Hayakawa Books). In 2018, his novel Game Kingdom (Gēmu no Ōkoku, Hayakawa Books) earned both the 38th Japan SF Grand Prize and the 31st Yamamoto Shūgorō Prize. He was awarded the 168th Naoki Prize—one of Japan’s most prestigious literary awards, recognizing exceptional popular fiction— in January 2023 for The Map and The Fist (Chizu to Ken, Shūeisha). His latest work, Your Quiz (Kimi no Kuizu), was released by Asahi Shimbun Publishing in 2024.