The Fire That Changed Everything
Endo Kazutoshi was traveling to Paris on September 6, 2025, when he received the devastating news. His Michelin-starred sushi restaurant, Endo at the Rotunda in west London, had been consumed by flames. The fire brigade had been called to the Helios building at 3am, and by morning, the eighth-floor restaurant—crafted from 200-year-old hinoki wood—was destroyed. Endo had left his restaurant just hours earlier, unaware of the impending disaster.
Despite the crisis unfolding back in London, Endo kept one appointment he couldn't cancel: a reservation at L'Ambroisie, the three-Michelin-star temple on Place des Vosges that represents the pinnacle of fine dining in Japan. Sitting beneath a giant Aubusson tapestry, Endo could only sip sparkling water as his mind raced. "My brain stopped," he recalled. "I had no passion. Can't focus. Zero."
A Lifetime's Work in Ashes
The loss was profound. Endo's restaurant wasn't just a business—it was his home. Gone were his Michelin star plaques from six successive years, his Harden's Restaurant Guides listing his establishment as No. 1 in the UK, and his meticulously sourced ingredients. Most painful was the loss of his knife rack, particularly two blades: one from his sushi master marking the Rotunda's opening, and another from his father, who died before seeing Endo behind his own counter.
As a third-generation sushi chef raised in his family's Yokohama restaurant, Endo had spent three decades pursuing mastery through the Japanese concept of shu-ha-ri: following rules, breaking them, then transcending them entirely. He was preparing to document this journey in a book when fire changed everything.
The Japanese Odyssey Begins
Endo greeted me at Tokyo station in late October with tousled peroxide-blond hair, designer sunglasses, and a hoodie—hardly the traditional image of a sushi master. His cockney-flavored English, learned from 30 years of listening to the Sex Pistols, completed the unexpected picture. "Finally," he said with a hug and fist-bump, "we're fucking here mate!"
The trip, originally planned as a victory lap for his book, had transformed into a mission of renewal. Endo had arrived weeks earlier, calling in favors with farmers, business leaders, and government officials to rebuild his supply network.
The Rice Meister of Fukushima
Our first stop was Fukushima to visit Endo's rice meister, Mr. Izuka. Rice represents 80% of Endo's sushi, and he imports not just the grain but Fukushima spring water to London. At the polishing plant, Endo explained that Fukushima rice is the "Louis Vuitton of the industry." We saw sacks destined for Tokyo's exclusive Sushi Saito, which stopped accepting new reservations in 2019 despite its three Michelin stars.
Endo demands rice with 5-6% protein content—softer than most chefs prefer—for his signature nigiri. "Life and cooking rice are very similar," Endo's father once told him. "Always, we are adjusting to try and find consistency."
Over lunch with the farmer, meister, and company chairman, Endo shared the fire story. I would hear this narrative repeated throughout our journey, each time met with shocked reactions and immediate offers of solidarity. Afterward, we visited the paddy where Endo's rice grows. Green shoots appeared weeks early. "They shouldn't be there yet," the farmer said. "It's too warm." Global warming was altering the rice's sweetness, threatening consistency.
Toyosu Market: The Heart of Japanese Seafood
Toyosu market, successor to the legendary Tsukiji, feels more like an international airport than a fish market. The clinical hallways gave way to the overwhelming smell of seafood as we entered the trading floor. Forklift trucks navigated fish sludge while filtration tanks hummed constantly.
Endo sources most fish from British suppliers, but tuna is different. For this, he relies on Hicho, tuna merchants since 1861. We watched Toichiro Iida, head of the family firm, fillet 100kg bluefin tranches with deliberate strokes. Each cut was made for a specific chef, with Iida knowing exactly what quality each client would appreciate.
"My master would send me here to just watch and watch," Endo explained. "Every day, ask questions, show interest. So that when I had my own place, they could trust me." Hicho never discusses money with Endo—Iida simply selects the cut he knows Endo would like.
The Changing Ocean
Endo's seaweed supplier echoed concerns heard in the rice paddies: warming waters are shrinking top-level stock. Iida nodded, explaining how quota restrictions, stock depletion, rising costs, and ocean warming have reduced fishing fleets.
Paradoxically, scarcity has increased demand for omakase. In London alone, high-end sushi counters have tripled since Endo opened the Rotunda, with prices reaching £500 per person. Chefs who maintain relationships with premium suppliers become increasingly prized.
Family Roots in Yokohama
A rickety train took us to Tsunashima, where Endo's father opened Midori Sushi in 1959. The recently renovated restaurant featured charcoal grey paint and a recessed entrance. Inside, we found Endo's brother Toshio cleaning after lunch service, markedly more reserved than his gregarious sibling.
Endo's mother Sumi, in her 90s, descended from the apartment above. Everyone straightened in her presence. She had shaped Endo's childhood, enrolling him in tea ceremonies, floristry, calligraphy, and judo to build precision and discipline.
The Path Not Taken
Endo excelled at wrestling, finishing top five twice at the All Japan high school championship and earning a scholarship to Kokushikan University. Upon graduation, his coach offered him a teaching position. When Endo called a family meeting, his mother delivered an ultimatum: take over the family business or be removed from the family register.
The next day, Endo apologized to his coach and began his culinary journey at 22—considered too old for most apprenticeships. He found work in Kyoto, earning £500 monthly and bathing at public bathhouses with other broke cooks.
After three years in Nagoya under a master who trained with Jiro Ono—where Endo was forbidden from touching fish, only allowed to scrub drains and make tea—he returned to his father's restaurant at 27. Finding it wanting, he questioned why they weren't using the best produce. His father told him to leave if he wasn't satisfied. Endo packed his bags that night.
London Calling and Rose Gray's Influence
After working in Tokyo and at the Japanese embassy in Spain, Endo returned to Ginza, Tokyo's sushi epicenter. Then Rainer Becker, founder of Zuma, invited him to London. "In Tokyo, Endo was one sushi chef among thousands," Becker explained. "In London, he could be the star."
At Zuma, regular customer Rose Gray—co-founder of the River Café—handed Endo her business card. Mistaking it for a simple cafe, Endo and his wife ate before visiting, only to discover Gray's culinary influence. She had already written about him in her Guardian column without his knowledge.
"I've eaten a lot of sushi," Gray told him, "but yours is the best." She gave him two instructions: use British produce and win a Michelin star. Endo began training at the River Café on his days off, learning how to source locally and make provenance part of the story.
When Gray became ill with cancer, Endo made her a carefully arranged bento box. She sent a thank-you note before passing away days later. Her advice stuck: Endo needed his own restaurant to fulfill her mission.
Rebuilding Relationships
Our journey concluded in Fukuoka, where we met ceramicist Mr. Koyanagi. When Endo was planning the Rotunda, he contacted over 100 craftsmen; only a handful replied. "He was intense. Serious. Maybe too serious," Koyanagi recalled.
Everything changed when renowned architect Kengo Kuma agreed to design the Rotunda. Their families were from the same Yokohama neighborhood, and Kuma had eaten at Endo's grandfather's restaurant. Suddenly, suppliers listened when Endo mentioned Kuma's name.
The Road to Recovery
Months after our trip, Endo's mother passed away. He returned to Yokohama, just as he had after the fire. Back then, Sumi had told him: "Nothing is finished. Don't cry. Don't be too negative."
When I visited Endo at his temporary residence in Annabel's members' club, he welcomed me to a calm space with a long pinewood counter. The Rotunda team was working again, suppliers had returned—some with free produce, others prioritizing his replacement stock. Astoundingly, a firefighter who had eaten at the Rotunda remembered where the knives sat and rescued them.
"I'm not sad any more," Endo said, his restored knives stacked behind him. "The Rotunda was seven great years that the fire can't take away." Next to the knives was a picture book from the restaurant's early years, spared from the blaze. Endo was ready to accept everything and move forward, just as his mother had taught him.
