Sundays require a particular kind of mental readiness.
My kitchen manager takes their weekly day of rest, which means the responsibility rests entirely on my shoulders. Do we work six days a week? Yes, we do. It is the inevitable reality of a small, independent establishment.
For a place like Goldtuna, adopting a five-day work week would likely mean we couldn't sustain ourselves.
We must be here when the world finds time to rest. People gather and make promises to meet on Saturdays and Sundays. It would be a disservice to our guests if I closed our doors simply because I sought a break. That will not do.
If you look for our closing days, you will find only two in the entire year: the first days of the Lunar New Year and the Autumn Harvest. Those are the only times we step away.
Today, I arrived early. My day begins at 8:00 AM as I review the reservation ledger to estimate our guest count and begin the delicate task of preparing the fish.
This is a task that demands deep concentration.
If I prepare too much, inventory accumulates, forcing me to either sell premium cuts at a loss or, worse, see them go to waste.
Conversely, if I prepare too little, we cannot serve our guests properly when a sudden rush occurs.
Finding that perfect equilibrium is a challenge I face every single morning.
It takes roughly three hours of preparation before the fish is ready for the table. That is why we open our doors at 11:30 AM.
Behind the scenes, those hours are a flurry of quiet activity.
The tuna at Goldtuna is defined by three signatures: complete thawing, generous thickness, and the precise removal of moisture.
Achieving this is more complex than it sounds. One must balance color, freshness, elasticity, and water content simultaneously.
It is a craft I continue to study and refine every day.
Today, on White Day, we welcomed many guests.
Surprisingly, the majority of them arrived without a reservation.
Among them were several of our regulars who admitted they felt it might be a bit too formal to book ahead on a Sunday.
One group after another filled the seats until we were at full capacity.
Moments like these can be quite startling.
Though I had prepared based on my estimates, I had to work with urgent focus behind the scenes to keep pace with the demand.
I feel a deep sense of tension when we are busy; I refuse to let the quality of our tuna or the warmth of our hospitality slip.
The busier we are, the more attention I must pay to each guest. To me, it may be another day at work, but for every guest, they have come to us for a special occasion.
If I fail to recognize the heart behind their visit, I have failed at the very basics of this craft.
I believe the true foundation of a restaurant lies in quiet dedication and the ability to move a guest's heart. Goldtuna is a tuna specialty restaurant, yes, but I hope it is remembered as a place that provides heartfelt moments.
Without this sense of devotion, our tuna would be no different from the offerings at a local supermarket.
It is because of this unspoken warmth that guests choose to visit us, despite the cost.
Our menus are priced at 55,000, 80,000, and 100,000. These are not small sums of money.
Yet, guests continue to find their way to us. I believe it is because they seek something beyond the plate.
To put it plainly, without a genuine emotional connection, there would be no reason to dine at Goldtuna. That is a truth I hold dear.
Let me share a story from Table 1 today.
A family joined us—a couple with two sons, one a high school freshman and the other a senior, both aspiring baseball players.
I have always had a special affinity for families. When I first opened this restaurant, my vision was to create a space where families could gather. Perhaps it is because I believe nothing in this world carries more value than the family unit.
While I don't necessarily give them more food, I find myself approaching them with a deeper sense of affection.
I looked at the older son and joked, "You boys need to start earning soon so you can treat your father to this tuna yourselves!" The father laughed and said, "The chef just said exactly what was on my mind."
With that simple exchange, they became more than just guests.
I don't do this with the intention of making people regulars; it happens naturally when you try to read and understand the guest's heart.
The art of sincere service must always come first.
A restaurant that captures the hearts of its guests will never falter.
Instead, the space becomes a cherished memory in their lives.
When that happens, they become your greatest advocates. They share their experiences with everyone they know. It is a miraculous cycle.
The sight of those parents dining with their two sons was truly beautiful. I hope it remains a fond memory for them. Providing the environment for such moments is, in itself, a small miracle.
I am certain of it.
Today, I even made a new friend in that father.
He possessed such wonderful energy. We even exchanged business cards.
I jokingly told his wife, "I'll be having a drink with your husband soon, so please don't be cross if he's a little late coming home."
There are some people you just know will be great company for a long conversation.
Where else would I find such connections?
One of the greatest rewards of running a restaurant is that people come to you.
I simply stand my ground, and the world brings new friends to my door.
It is a profound source of happiness.
I look forward to sharing more stories when we finally sit down for that drink.
For now, it is time for me to rest.
Peace be with you.