Imitation nation

Japan’s thriving replica food business confirms that the devil is definitely in the details.

As I brush away the plastic curtains that mark the entrance to Marufuku, a utensil supplier in Osaka’s Doguyasuji (aka, “kitch- en street”) I’m gawking at a vinyl wonderland. Rows of synthetic sushi cozy up to paraffin parfaits, and waxy plates of shrimp tempura stare back at me, surreptitiously. In a far corner, a gleaming lobster, 31-centi- meters long, is treated to its own private shelf and a carefully hand-written label: ¥20,000.

What I’ve stumbled upon is merely a sliver of Japan’s colossal food replica mar- ket, a $150 million industry, according to Asian Week magazine. Lining the display windows of sushi bars, coffee shops and noodle joints, these meticulously crafted samples often assist uncertain diners and tourists with their culinary conundrums. “I usually tend to order the dishes I see in the store window rather than just what’s in the menu, mainly because it saves time,” shares Jun Stinson, a Nishinomiya resident, originally from Oakland, California.

The samples also make fantastic souvenirs — who doesn’t need a salmon roll- shaped keychain? — and showcase the success of a business that has existed for over 80 years.

“The Japanese need to see what they’re eating,” claims Yasuo Horihata, manager of Taisei Shokki, a Doguyasuji store that specializes in tableware. “We can’t visua- lize with words on a menu.” Horihata may just be echoing the sentiments of befuddled 19th century Japanese restaurant-goers, unaccustomed to the surge of foreign cuisines making appearances in eateries across the nation, a direct result of contact with the West. Many restaurants began providing drawings of the unfamiliar items but remained unsuccessful, not realizing that the key to capturing appetites lay in going three-dimensional.

According to Tom Dillon, a writer for the Yokoso! Japan travel campaign, it wasn’t until 1926 that an entrepreneur from Gifu, Takizo Iwasaki, created the very first model (a rice omelet), inspired by wax fruit and vegetables used in school nutrition classes. Restaurants began to bite, thrilled at the prospect of enticing their disinterested customers and soon enough, competitors followed.

The modern-day procedure begins when restaurants send their original menu items and photographs to the designated imita- tion food crafters (located nationwide). After silicon is poured around each item, it eventually solidifies, creating a mold that encases the original food, ready to be filled with liquid vinyl. Once the vinyl hardens, with the assistance of an air gun, chunks are removed and painted with the necessary features.

The industry is, undoubtedly expanding, as explained by Kazuyo Kumagai, manager of Shinseido, a lantern store that also dabbles in food samples, situated a few short steps from Horihata’s shop. “Ten years ago, the business tended to be driven towards sushi shops and kissaten,” recalls Kumagai. “Now we’re taking orders from more specific restaurants.” Shimmer- ing strips of linguine, hollow baguettes, and mounds of glistening chicken tikka masala are just a few of the innovative additions that compose today’s replica food roster.

On the flip side, managing the store windows can be a tedious and expensive task, asserts Horihata. Though vinyl does a better job of handling sunlight than its predecessors, paraffin and wax, which faded upon contact, diligent restaurant owners find themselves dishing out as much as ¥200,000 to maintain and revamp a respectable window. For phony food purists — if there ever was such a thing — like Kumagai’s late father, it was almost mandatory that restaurants bought two of every sample, as a matter of aesthetic importance and balance. Post-bubble, as restaurants began cutting costs, this tradition soon faded.

Most food replica-related traditions, however, have valiantly weathered the times, evolving alongside the Japanese palate. Ultimately, it is the industry’s devo- tion to seemingly insignificant minutia that has defined its success.

Whether it’s including the customary burn marks on an imitation omochi or ensuring that every plastic hot dog is drizzled with its own glob of ketchup, the fastidious nature of the craft is truly a reflection of a culture’s long-standing commitment to detail.

Text & photos: Aarti Jhaveri