Rewriting Peru’s vertical gastronomy through Japanese lens
EBRU ERKE
Even with a reliable compass, it is easy to lose your way in Tokyo’s gastronomic atlas. This city is less a map than a restless laboratory where culinary identities from across the globe are deconstructed and rewoven at high speed. Within this turbulence, the voice of MAZ — transplanting Peru’s idea of “vertical ecology” into the heart of Akasaka — has emerged with striking resonance in only a short time. The clarity of that voice belongs to the restaurant’s young chef, Santiago Fernández.
MAZ’s story is rooted in chef Virgilio Martinez’s Central in Lima, the restaurant that first mapped Peru’s biodiversity onto the plate: The Pacific coast, the Amazon rainforest, the Andean highlands. It is a cartographic reading of landscape through altitude. In Tokyo, this narrative acquires two additional strata: Japanese seasonality and the culture of meticulous craftsmanship. Japanese press coverage emphasizes that the menu is not designed merely to “represent Peru,” but to translate the shared reverence for nature between the two countries into a common language. The Japan Times described the experience as “a staging that transcends food,” and the restaurant’s consistent presence in critical Tokyo media since its opening proves that the concept has evolved from a theoretical manifesto into a well-composed text.
Chef Santiago’s culinary voice resists reduction to a single identity card. Born in Venezuela, trained in Spain and shaped within Central’s research and creative programs in Lima, he now articulates a syntax in Tokyo that fuses Peru’s material memory with the rigor of Japanese technique—a kind of “localized universality.” For Santiago, the central commonality in the rise of Latin American cuisines across Asia is precisely this: a shared respect for nature, a sanctification of the bond between ingredient and producer and a determination to preserve traditional methods. On the plate, this idea manifests with provocative clarity and a serene discipline.
The award of two Michelin stars in December 2023 propelled MAZ into wider visibility. The Japan Times, in a review, wrote that the accolade “threw open Tokyo’s window onto Latin American cuisine”—an endorsement that functioned not merely as recognition but as an invitation to the city’s culinary audience, affirming that “the language of Peru can be spoken fluently here.” Simultaneously, Peru’s leading daily El Comercio reported on MAZ’s entry into Asia’s 50 Best Restaurants, highlighting the chef’s declaration that “Tokyo is the best showcase.” This was not just a marketing line but a compressed summary of shifting global routes in gastronomy. Today, Tokyo is not only the crucible for Japanese cuisine but also the stage where any well-constructed culinary idea is most sharply tested. To my mind, this demonstrates how the city has surpassed the “national narrative” to create a transnational gastronomic universe. The Latin American idioms entering Tokyo’s scene are also altering the rhythm of a tasting-menu tradition long dominated by French and Japanese polarities.
The translation of the “vertical journey” in Tokyo is pragmatic: importing certain “core” products from Peru — cacao, select coffees, dehydrated potatoes, edible clay — while sourcing the majority of ingredients from Japanese producers. In this way, MAZ avoids the pitfalls of “origin romanticism,” instead aligning the sensitivities of two ecosystems in a single plate. It does not sacrifice the political and economic context of geography to exoticism, but rather makes it responsibly visible. Japanese critics often read this approach in parallel with the design of the dining room and the dramaturgy of service: the restaurant is likened not to a “museum hall” but to a living stage.
In conversation with Santiago, what struck me most was his oscillation between “story” and “proof.” On one hand, there is the database of Mater Iniciativa — the research institution behind Central — cataloguing products and ecological knowledge from the field. On the other hand, there is the intimate practice of Tokyo’s micro-seasons, reinforced through direct contact with producers. Their interaction is palpable in the structural composition of dishes: layers of ingredients carrying not a single geography but the resonance of multiple voices.
At the heart of Santiago Fernández’s plates lies what might be called a “composed assertiveness.” An evening at MAZ feels less like dinner than a carefully staged performance: the cadence of service, the presentation of dishes, the choreography of alcoholic and non-alcoholic pairings — all conspire to create a dramaturgy beyond consumption. In the noisy and competitive Tokyo market, MAZ speaks with a quiet confidence. Fernández’s culinary language is, in essence, “a rewriting of Peru’s narrative through the idiom of Tokyo.” It also signals something larger: that in the emerging field of culinary diplomacy, method and ethical dialogue are indispensable conditions of success. And yes, amid these layered narratives, the taste must remain forceful — because in gastronomy, the palate is still the ultimate arbiter.
As a columnist, and as someone who has dined at Central, my observation is this: MAZ’s success points less to the brilliance of a solitary star than to the correctness of its method. When research (Mater’s field data), intuition (the chef’s creative sensibility) and ethics (the relationship with the city and its producers) converge, what emerges is not imitation but a new originality. That is why every applause MAZ receives in Tokyo strengthens an invisible thread stretching from producers in Peru to artisans in Japan.
For an iconic stay
Rising like a lantern meticulously placed among Tokyo’s skyscrapers, The Peninsula Tokyo stands at the very heart of the city. Situated directly across from the Imperial Palace Gardens, this property is not merely an architectural landmark but a symbol reflecting the spirit, luminosity and elegance of the metropolis. From the moment one steps through its doors, guests are welcomed not by the conventional atmosphere of a hotel lobby but by a curated cultural stage. At its center soars the monumental bamboo sculpture “Lying Dragon Gate,” which presides over the space like a protective spirit drawn from Japanese mythology. The fusion of the dragon’s power with the refinement of bamboo encapsulates the hotel’s philosophy from the very first instant: to unite the soul of tradition with the grace of modernity.
Ascending to the rooms, this philosophy translates seamlessly into daily life. The 314 guestrooms and 47 suites feel remarkably spacious compared with the often compact accommodations of Tokyo’s vertical hotels. Here, luxury reveals itself not through ostentation but through small, intelligently designed details that ease the rhythm of everyday living. From humidity controls to personalized lighting scenarios — even down to the presence of a nail-drying device — every element underscores that true elegance resides not in spectacle but in subtlety. This is the distinction of The Peninsula Tokyo: to render technology invisible while delivering comfort that is almost imperceptibly integrated.
Then comes the hotel’s true stage: Peter, on the 24th floor. With a panoramic view that rivals the brilliance of Tokyo’s city lights, the restaurant immediately conveys that a performance is underway the moment one takes a seat. Dining here is not merely an act of nourishment but an unfolding narrative. Hokkaido’s umami-laden seafood, the refined marbling of Hida wagyu, the citrus brightness of Shikoku and the sharp freshness of Nagano’s wasabi — each ingredient is transformed into a story, retold through the disciplined techniques of French cuisine. At the helm is French chef Yohan Da Costa, whose career spans Michelin-starred kitchens and the Bocuse d’Or stage before being carried to Tokyo. At his side, cocktail artisan Mari Kamata composes liquid journeys inspired by Japan’s diverse regions: from Kyushu’s distillation traditions to the orchards of Shikoku, her creations resemble geographical narratives poured into a glass.
The gastronomic universe here extends far beyond Peter. At Hei Fung Terrace, Cantonese cuisine is rendered with refined precision; plant-based menus inspired by Shojin philosophy echo Japan’s monastic culinary traditions; and the hotel’s signature afternoon tea has become a ritual in its own right. This afternoon experience is far more than a simple service of tea: arranged on crystalline tiers, the balance of sweet and savory selections merges the minimalism of Japanese aesthetics with the elegance of British heritage. Within Tokyo’s relentless tempo, this ritual slows the cadence of time itself, distilling the hotel’s philosophy once again: to temper the velocity of life and illuminate the grace embedded in each moment.
Ultimately, The Peninsula Tokyo is not merely a hotel but an experience interwoven with culture, gastronomy and modern luxury. From the instant one steps inside to the final glass raised against the 24th-floor skyline, every element contributes to a sensory journey. Tokyo is no longer simply a city to be seen, but a stage to be rediscovered through taste, scent, sound and view.
