Narezushi Company 1860s Fukui Fourth Generation Wooden Boards

Okay, grab your coffee (or tea, I don’t judge). Let’s talk about something weird and wonderful: the Narezushi Company from 1860s Fukui. Wait, don’t zone out. This isn’t a boring history lecture. It’s about old fish and really, really old wood.

The Fourth Generation of… Boards?

You heard me right. The Fourth Generation Wooden Boards. Not the company’s fourth CEO. Not a fancy new recipe. We’re talking about actual, literal, wooden boards used to press narezushi. The same ones passed down since the 1860s.

Picture this: Great-Great-Grandpa Board, then Grandpa Board, then Dad Board, and now, the current Board. It’s like a family heirloom, but one that smells faintly of fermented fish. Romantic, right?

What is Narezushi, Anyway?

Let’s backtrack. Narezushi is the original sushi. Before the raw-fish-on-rice thing we know today. This is ancient, lacto-fermented fish packed in salt and rice for months. It’s funky. It’s stinky. It’s an acquired taste—like sourdough’s angry, salty cousin.

And you need heavy wooden boards to press it down. Without them, the fish just floats around, laughing at tradition.

Why 1860s Fukui Matters

Fukui prefecture is a quiet region on the Sea of Japan coast. In the 1860s, Japan was still in the Edo period, samurai were wandering around, and no one had heard of a California roll. This was real, grunt-work sushi.

Those boards? They’re not just planks. They’re carved from local cypress or cedar, chosen for their straight grain and natural antimicrobial properties. The wood fights off bacteria—while the fish gets deliciously funky. Irony, much?

And the Fourth Generation board? It’s survived fires, space heaters, and probably a few grumpy chefs slamming it down. That wood has stories.

What Makes Them So Special?

You can buy a sushi press online for twenty bucks. Trust me, it won’t work. These boards are seasoned. Not with oil—with time.

Each board has absorbed decades of rice vinegar, salt, and fish oils. It’s like a cast-iron skillet, but for sushi. The flavor literally lives in the wood. You can’t fake that. You can’t scrub it away. It’s part of the board’s soul.

Narezushi Sushi

And the fourth generation? They’re not just using the same design. They’re using the exact same boards, passed down like a secret handshake. “Here, son. Press this mackerel. Don’t drop it.”

The Wet, Sticky Reality

Let’s be real: working with these boards is a pain. They’re heavy. They’re sticky. After each batch, you have to rinse them with careful water—no soap, no harsh scrub. One wrong move and you ruin hundred-year-old wood.

But that’s the point. Narezushi isn’t fast food. It’s a slow, stinky, ritualistic art. You wait months for the fish to ferment. You wait another month for the board to dry properly. Patience is the main ingredient.

And those Fourth Generation boards? They’ve got more patience than a monk on a mountaintop. They’ve been waiting for decades just to press another slab of fish.

Why Should You Care?

Maybe you’re thinking, “I don’t eat stinky fish. I eat grocery store sushi with a side of wasabi.” That’s fine. But here’s the thing: this is a story about heritage.

Everything today is disposable. Plastic spatulas, single-use chopsticks, apps that update twice a week. The Fourth Generation board is the opposite. It’s a wooden middle finger to planned obsolescence. It says, “I was here in 1865. I’ll be here in 2065.”

Also, it’s hilarious. Imagine telling your friends, “Oh, that fish? It was pressed by a board older than your grandmother’s copper cookware.” You’ll sound like a kitchen aristocrat.

Japanese Antique Wabi Sabi Wooden Board 1860s-1900s / Abstract Art at

The Taste Test (Sort Of)

I haven’t actually eaten narezushi made with these exact boards. But I’ve read about it. The texture is said to be firm but tender, with a sharp, cheesy tang. The wood imparts a faint resinous note—like chewing on a forest floor, but in a good way.

And here’s the kicker: the Fourth Generation board is irreplaceable. If it cracks? Well, you can’t just call a carpenter. The new wood wouldn’t have the same microflora, the same history, the same poop-from-decades-ago (let’s be honest, it’s touched fish guts). You’d lose the soul.

So the company guards these boards like dragons. They’re stored in humidity-controlled rooms. They’re shown to visitors as a rite of passage. “This board was used when Commodore Perry was still sailing around.” Okay, maybe not, but close enough.

A Final, Wobbly Thought

I don’t know about you, but I love this. I love that a 160-year-old wooden board is still doing its job, still pressing fish, still making some picky sushi snob in Fukui happy.

It’s a reminder that we don’t need shiny new tools for every task. Sometimes, the best tool is the one with the most vinegar stains. The one your great-grandpa’s hands touched. The one that smells like a dream of the sea.

So next time you eat sushi, pause. Stare at the wooden counter. Wonder if it has a fourth-generation secret sibling. And then eat your roll. But maybe skip the California roll. Go for the fermented stuff. You might just taste history.

Now pass the soy sauce. And don’t you dare spill it on the board.