Two cultures speak through Tohru’s cuisine

EBRU ERKE

Within one of the city’s oldest civic buildings in Munich, Tohru in der Schreiberei rises between stone walls that have held the city’s memory since 1552. Here, Chef Tohru Nakamura merges German discipline with Japanese subtlety. Recently awarded three Michelin stars, his cooking captures both the traces of his heritage and the refined spirit of contemporary European gastronomy.

His cuisine is not a fusion — it’s a dialogue. Every bite feels like a question between two cultures; every aroma, a quiet answer.

“When guests look at the dishes, they might seem more Japanese, but actually they’re not,” he says. “For example, when we use butter in the sauces, it’s no longer Japanese cuisine. The taste may lean Japanese, but at the end of the day, it’s more European. We blend the two cultures so naturally that sometimes the border disappears. Though when it comes to fish, yes — the presentation is definitely Japanese.”

Tohru’s passion for cooking began early. There’s a childhood photo of him, barely five years old, standing on a stool and stirring a pot on the stove. His German mother and Japanese father had imagined a diplomatic career for him — but fate had other plans. In an attempt to inspire him, his father once took him to visit a Japanese ambassador friend in Copenhagen, hoping to ignite a sense of diplomacy. Instead, young Tohru was captivated by the chef in the ambassador’s kitchen. The next morning, he woke early to prepare a Japanese breakfast with him. That, his father later admitted, was the moment he knew: His son’s path would be through the kitchen, not the embassy.

When guests enter Tohru in der Schreiberei, they first climb a steep wooden staircase — an ascent that feels like a ritual. Each step moves them further from the noise of the city and closer to quiet contemplation. Upstairs, the soft lighting and refined atmosphere immediately evoke Japanese minimalism. Here, aesthetics are not found in decoration but in restraint — in the simplicity of the plate itself.

“I want my guests to feel as if they’re in their own living rooms,” says Nakamura. “And at the same time, I want them to experience something like a Christmas feast — something emotionally charged. People today seek emotional experiences. For us, it’s essential to touch their souls.”

When I ask him about the language of his cuisine, his answer is precise: “It’s an international language — a blend of German and Japanese. But our expression comes through the lens of Japanese cuisine. For instance, for fermented rice we say shio-koji; for fermented soy paste, miso; and for ginger blossom, myoga. These Japanese terms are part of our identity. Japanese cooked rice always appears somewhere on the menu — it’s part of who we are.”

Indeed, what emerges here is an omakase spirit written with German sensibility — a perfect balance of ritual, rhythm and respect for ingredients. Those who seek surprise in Nakamura’s dishes will find subtle theatricality and crystal-clear precision. The Japanese word omakase means “I trust you” — but in Nakamura’s hands, it becomes a universal expression of faith. “I trust you; the choice is yours.” It’s a belief that extends beyond the guest to the farmer, the fisherman and the season itself.

For him, cooking begins not in the kitchen but in the field. He maintains long-term relationships with everyone from fish farmers to organic pig breeders. He even speaks of a stage he calls “pre-cooking” — sourcing ingredients from the right hands at precisely the right moment.

To truly understand his philosophy, one must leave the city and visit the farm where his produce grows. Just outside Munich, rows of Japanese herbs and countless varieties of tomatoes are cultivated especially for him. For Tohru, walking through this field is a meditation — touching the soil, inhaling the scents and feeling the rhythm of nature.

Right there, by the edge of the field, he chops ripe tomatoes, mixes them with freshly picked herbs, drizzles them with intensely aromatic chive oil and serves them with his homemade sourdough bread. The impromptu meal that follows is one of pure simplicity — perhaps one of the most honest I’ve ever experienced.

The restaurant’s menu consists of nine savory and two sweet courses. It follows the rhythm of the traditional Japanese kaiseki structure while reinterpreting it through European ingredients. In one dish, Koshihikari rice, trout roe and a beurre blanc made from fermented rice build a bridge of flavors connected by sake and elderflower. In another, hamachi (young yellowtail) meets roasted seaweed and Comté cheese — an aromatic intersection between the Sea of Japan and the French Alps. And perhaps the most unforgettable: Sea urchin on Hitomebore rice — so simple, so refined that as the rice melts, it turns into a silent meditation on the palate.

Within the ancient walls of Schreiberei, Nakamura offers more than a meal — he offers a journey of identity. His kitchen, where German precision meets Japanese sensitivity, writes the future of gastronomy within a building that remembers the past. In every dish lies as much respect as mastery; in every bite, as much emotion as technique. Great cuisine, after all, leaves its mark not only on the palate but also on the bridges it builds between cultures — and in the memories it awakens.

His team embodies omotenashi, the Japanese philosophy of heartfelt hospitality. The menu arrives in a violet envelope, personalized with each guest’s name. Every detail feels intentional, every gesture considered. At the end of the evening, Nakamura and his team escort guests all the way to the street — a gesture reflecting the Japanese notion of nagori oshii, a gentle resistance to parting.

Tohru in der Schreiberei stands as a symbol of the new era of gastronomy: today, what matters is not where you come from, but what emotion you carry. In the heart of Munich, within these centuries-old stone walls, Tohru Nakamura offers not just food, but a story — one told in silence, balance and grace. In his kitchen, Japan’s discipline meets Europe’s warmth; technique and feeling, simplicity and richness, walk hand in hand.

In his plates, it’s not geography that speaks — it’s character.