Celebrating the Life of a Legendary Chef
I met Shin Tsujimura back when he first arrived at Hatsuhana in New York City after leaving the original Hatsuhana in Tokyo. From that early chapter he moved on to work with Nobu Matsuhisa, becoming a steady and beloved presence in that world-class restaurant family for nearly two decades. Over the years I watched him refine his craft and build a reputation that bridged continents — a true sushi master whose work and warmth left a mark on everyone who sat at his counter.
When I traveled to New York alone, I developed a routine that often ended at Nobu 57. I would land late, spend the night in Midtown, meet with people the next day, and then head back to Minnesota on an evening flight. No matter how tight the schedule, I could count on showing up at Nobu 57 around 9:30 p.m. and finding Shin behind the sushi bar. I would slip into the corner seat by the ‘hot kitchen’ door, hat pulled down, and let the rush of the city fall away while I caught up on email or simply relaxed. Shin always noticed. He greeted me with that wide smile and effortless laugh, and from that moment the evening belonged to him.
Shin’s hospitality was the kind every restaurateur hopes to achieve: attentive, intuitive, and quietly authoritative. He remembered what I liked and would make sure I tasted whatever had arrived fresh that afternoon. He also loved to introduce something new, a small surprise that would expand how I thought about texture or balance or the seasonality of fish. Those choices were never showy; they were thoughtful, precise, and rooted in a deep respect for ingredients. Witnessing that care — the way he handled the rice, the fish, and the smallest garnish — was to see the heart of great sushi craftsmanship.
He had a laugh that filled the room and a smile that could make a stranger feel welcome. I remember his hands most vividly: large, steady, and remarkably gentle, the soft touch that marks the best sushi chefs. He was a teacher by example, setting a standard for service and skill that inspired colleagues and reassured guests. Whether serving a solo diner at the bar or overseeing a full dining room, Shin made the experience personal. He believed hospitality was a responsibility — to keep people comfortable, satisfied, and delighted while they were under his care.
Shin’s presence extended beyond the restaurant. I saw him bring that same calm energy to large events, most memorably when he captivated a crowd at the Taste of the NFL during Super Bowl weekend. Watching him work a stage of thousands, as well as a tiny corner of the sushi bar, revealed how his talent translated to any setting: disciplined, generous, and utterly focused on the food and the people who would enjoy it.
He passed away yesterday, and the loss is profound. I had seen him twice at Nobu not long ago; those recent meetings make this moment even more immediate and painfully personal. The world has lost an exceptional chef and a kind, joyful human being. His absence diminishes all of us who knew him, dined with him, or learned from him.
Our thoughts are with Shin’s family, his friends, and his many colleagues at Nobu. He leaves behind a legacy of exacting standards, warm hospitality, and the quiet artistry of a chef who loved his work. For anyone who was fortunate enough to sit at his counter, taste his sushi, or watch him command a room, his influence will continue in kitchens and dining rooms for years to come.