On Sharpening
In the crucible of a professional kitchen, a razor-sharp knife is an indispensable tool. The undeniable importance of wielding a meticulously sharpened blade is undeniable, and learning to sharpen your own knife is an irreplaceable skill developed over years of patience and practice. It’s a dance of focus and precision that becomes ingrained in your muscle memory and inseparable from your sense of professional pride.
Perhaps the most difficult and most rewarding tools for sharpening a knife are Japanese water stones—an analogue sharpening ritual that goes beyond the mechanical monstrosity of a wheel grinder or the manual mundanity of a pass-through sharpener. The use of a water stone is a sacred practice that connects me to the rich heritage of culinary craftsmanship, where personal skill and persistence is rewarded with a superior tool and a closer connection to your craft. As I submerge these stones in water, I feel them come alive, their rough porous surfaces absorbing the moisture and changing in character, as if quenching a deep-seated thirst, their texture on my fingertips a nearly meditative anticipation.
Before me lies the coarse grit stone, the simplest and most ancient of tools. First, I must prepare the stone, flattening its surface, grooved from previous use. It is a ritual of reverence and restoration, ensuring the stone’s surface is flawlessly even, the first step in a journey to greater mastery. With sure strokes, I use a flattening plate to erode imperfections, creating a smooth plane. This act of preparation sets the stage for a precise and consistent sharpening experience; I embrace the journey of mindful sharpening, unlocking the stone’s potential with the reverence necessary for culinary craftsmanship.
With a fluid and deliberate rhythm, I begin the delicate dance of control and finesse. At the lower grit, I can feel as each stroke reshapes the blade’s edge, grinding down the uneven metal, leveling the bevel and massaging the flaws of use away. As I progress to finer grit stones, less metal is removed but the edge is refined, smoothed, left more beautiful with each new grit. Each stroke is done, consistent angle held with a focus and deliberation all consuming, the meditative experience of care and attention to one’s immediate reality. The highest grit stone, its surface barely coarse enough to grind, unveils the true essence of the blade—a mirrored bevel and razor’s edge.
Behold—a reborn creation, brought again to its original form, only slightly changed and ready for the days ahead. This is no ordinary tool; it is an extension of my very being, a symbol of my unwavering dedication to my culinary craft. Through regular honing and meticulous tending, a bond is cultivated between chef and tool, a symbiotic relationship of mutual care.
Indeed, sharpening with Japanese water stones is more than a chore—it’s a heartfelt homage to the culinary arts and a nod to the lineage of chefs. It serves as a timeless bridge, connecting me to the rich tapestry of culinary traditions while giving me a regular opportunity to reflect on my personal journey and to reify my commitment to my craft.
To all my fellow culinary enthusiasts and professional peers, I extend an invitation: embrace this art, immerse yourselves in the realm of sharpening with stones (be they waterstones, diamond stones, glass stones or ceramic) and discover the transformative power they hold. May your blades remain sharp, your chives dry, your parsley green and your left forearm hairless.