The Japanese sushi master looks at my upturned hand, looks at me and looks down again at my hand. In my hot palm nestles my attempt at sushi-making. A misshapen ball of sticky rice clings precariously to a slice of raw tuna. Other grains of rice dot my hand, while a smear of wasabi colours the tip of my index finger. There is a steep intake of breath and a sharp, barked sentence in Japanese. The female interpreter smiles, but doesn’t translate. But then she doesn’t need to.

Along with four others, I am taking part in a masterclass in sushi – the Japanese staple that has now become a worldwide phenomenon. As the Japanese Government presses to have Japanese restaurants worldwide registered and certified, I am in a sushi restaurant in Tokyo, trying to master the art of making it.

We had met our interpreter at Kichijoji station, a 15-minute ride by subway from central Tokyo. “Just to warn you about the taisho [sushi master],” she says, as we walk to his restaurant. “Sometime he ask very personal questions. So you just answer back.”

The restaurant is small, and closed for the moment to the general public. We meet Eiji Hayashi, pictured, our taisho. He is small, stocky and smiling. You could imagine him being a nifty black belt or a welterweight boxer. We bow, but he also shakes hands with a bone-crunching intensity unusual among the Japanese. We put on our aprons and bandanas. I feel like an extra from the Russian roulette scene in the The Deer Hunter.

We wash our hands (in a country where raw chicken is considered a delicacy, cleanliness is next to godliness), then gather round a table set up with cooked rice, sashimi (slices of raw fish), finger bowls and wasabi (horseradish). Our first task is to make nigiri sushi – rice topped with sashimi. In a lightning-fast movement the taisho picks up a ball of rice, shapes it, dabs the fish with wasabi and pushes the rice on to it. He turns it over, shapes it and there it is – a finished piece of perfect sushi.

We all try to do the same. As a left-hander I forget immediately which hand I’m supposed to have the rice in, and start switching it and the raw fish from hand to hand as if I’m re-enacting a Tommy Cooper sketch. The taisho looks at me with a puzzled frown. He says something to the interpreter. Perhaps it’s one of those seaching personal questions I’ve been waiting for – such as why do I support Norwich City. “He want to know if you’re left-handed,” she says.

“It’s OK, I can swing both ways,” I say in a desperate attempt at humour and a forlorn effort not to lose face. Happily, she doesn’t translate this.

Eventually I end up with something that looks vaguely like a piece of sushi, which I deposit on my plate. I’m conscious of the Japanese aesthetic which dictates that the presentation of the food is more important than the food itself. On that I mark myself as one out of ten. By this time the taisho’s attention is directed at another member of the group, whose ball of rice dwarfs his fish. “He say you must be very hungry,” says our jovial interpreter.

We then move on to makizushi – sushi rolled in dried seaweed. We are given squared pieces of seaweed. We put on the rice, make an indentation for the cucumber and are told to roll it from the left “just like a kimono”.

Mine rolls encouragingly to the left, but once I put it on the plate it begins to unravel and looks more like one of Jo Brand’s tent dresses.

I’ve been told that you need cold hands to become a sushi chef, which is why there are more men in the profession than women. Through the interpreter, I ask the taisho for his opinion. “He say it all depends on what sort of feeling you have,” she explains, then adds cryptically: “Woman is inside the kitchen, but men are standing outside and that make your body cold.” At the end of the session I probably have more rice on my hands, face and apron that I do in my sushi. As we leave, the taisho once again shakes my hand. His grip, I notice this time, is as icy as it is strong.

hisexperience.jp

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