Nikos Politakos: Born to Run, with a knife and myoga

It’s a little after 5 p.m. when I arrive at Kinjo.

The restaurant that has become a reference point for Japanese fusion cuisine in Athens is getting ready for evening service. Nikos Politakos sits across from me, radiating the energy that defines him, and I hit “Rec” for an interview that is anything but ordinary.

"A Greek-language version of this article first published in FNL Guide"

What’s your relationship with music?

“From the moment I wake up, music is part of my day, and my night. I fall asleep listening to jazz; otherwise I can’t relax. Sometimes I even leave the house with the music still playing. It almost never stops.”

I know you’re a big Bruce Springsteen fan, and to be honest, The Boss isn’t exactly easy listening for the Greek audience, is he?

“That’s why we’re never going to see him in Greece again. I never followed the herd anyway. I was the black sheep from a young age, not just to rebel, it was simply who I was. Springsteen was always around the house because my uncle listened to him. I remember watching his concerts on TV and being drawn to that energy. I’ve seen him live twice in London. I once stood for ten hours in the rain just to be up front, and I don’t regret it for a second. I’d do it again and again.”

Nikos tells me he grew up listening to Queen, Led Zeppelin, and AC/DC, but his musical universe doesn’t stop there.

“I listen to Santana, Latin music, jazz, even classical. I also went through a skyladiko phase when I was around twenty. I lived it, I got my fill, and I moved on. It doesn’t suit me aesthetically anymore,” he says with a smile.

I don’t need to ask which musician he’d like to cook for, it’s obvious. But what would he actually prepare backstage for The Boss?

“Obviously the restaurant’s best seller. The Sando, without a second thought. You have to try it, it’s the ultimate food for a rocker. Pure quality ‘junk,’ in the best possible sense. It’s something you want to eat again and again. That dish can never come off the menu. People would protest. They’d probably bomb us if we took it out.”

What’s the most rock ’n’ roll ingredient you’ve worked with so far?

“Myoga, without question. Not many people know it. We import it from Japan; it’s part of the ginger family but much more extreme. Used correctly on fresh fish, it completely changes the character of the dish. I wish it were cheaper so we could use it more often. In Japan they use it a lot, here, almost no one does.”

For Nikos, the relationship between music and cooking is complex, yet crystal clear. I ask whether he prefers cooking in silence or with music.

“When I’m alone, developing a dish or cooking, I absolutely need music—it puts me in the zone. But during service, I want silence. A clear head. After the pressure drops, I’m the first to joke around, but when we’re working, we’re working. I want full concentration from everyone.”

How much attention do you pay to the music playing at Kinjo?

“I’m not one of those people who would play Japanese music just because we serve Japanese food,” he says, and we both laugh.

“Lately I’ve been playing French rap, but not only that. Sometimes Latin, sometimes Cuban music, even Cesária Évora. My approach is simple: this is my home. And in your own home, you do whatever you want. Today I feel like AC/DC? I’ll play AC/DC. People come here to eat my food, and I cook the way I like. Music, just like food, is another way of showing your guests who you are.”

He then tells me about an incident from a while back, when a woman dining at the restaurant got up, approached the pass, and asked for the music to be changed. That day, French rap was playing.

“What did you want us to put on, just greek music? Turn into a jukebox?” I told her. “The person next to you might like it why should I ruin it for them?”

The twist? “A little later, I served two kids at the next table and they said, ‘What amazing music you’re playing.’ The woman who complained was sitting right behind them. She heard everything, and of course, said nothing.”

If the kitchen were a concert stage, what instrument would you play?

“Definitely drums. I don’t have it in me to be the frontman, but on the drums I keep the rhythm. Sure, bass does that too, but bass players are usually calmer characters. I’m intense, I’d be breaking strings and changing them all the time.”

If you set up a street food counter, what would you serve?

“Sando, obviously. Dumplings and kushiyaki. A few things, done well. In Japan, I once had a garlic skewer, unbelievable flavor. But I insist: specific dishes, not fifty options.”

The conversation naturally turns to ramen. Nikos doesn’t hide his disappointment with the ramen boom in Athens.

“I’ll tell you something. Nine out of ten people making ramen here probably don’t even know where Japan is on the map. In Japan, the best ramen is found in places that stink on the outside. Just like patsas joints here, an unpleasant smell. Making good ramen is very difficult. The broth can include dried seafood, bones, all kinds of things. Here, most places use ready-made stock. I don’t even look at them, I don’t bother. Now even the smallest café serves sushi. Mayonnaises, sauces, you know what I mean. I’ve cut rolls entirely. I only keep the four traditional ones, with the rice on the outside.”

His conclusion is blunt:

“I think it’s a trend that will pass. In the past, many cuisines in Greece, Italian, Mexican, were seriously abused. The same thing is happening now with Japanese cuisine.”

As we wrap up, I ask him: if his career were a song, what would it be?

“Born to Run. It says it all,” he answers. And it’s clear the Springsteen song isn’t just a track for him.

“‘’Cause tramps like us, baby we were born to run.’ It’s a title I’ve even thought about tattooing. I might do it, on my ankle.”

The future?

“I don’t see myself doing anything other than Japanese cuisine. It fits me one hundred percent. It’s what I love. The only other scenario I can imagine—when I hit sixty—is grilling sardines on an island. Mackerel. Bonito. A tiny place serving just those three and fresh tomatoes. Nothing else.”

After our conversation, Nikos leads me to the pass. It’s already seven o’clock, and the energy has shifted. Service is about to begin.

Carlos Santana’s electric guitar flows from the speakers as Nikos precisely slices a fillet of amberjack, preparing a dreamlike nigiri with fresh wasabi. At the same time, a lobster passes through the flame, shedding its shell before taking its place on the pass. Bite after bite follows, and I find myself wondering how his intense character, with all that rock background, balances so effortlessly with the calm and precision demanded by Japanese cuisine.

Before I can finish the nigiri, he guides me into the kitchen. Slices of bonito (katsuo) are being smoked over straw. He plates them with the myoga he mentioned earlier. Every movement is measured. The man who was joking just moments ago now stands fully focused in front of me. He hands me a bite, and I understand.

Born to Run isn’t a song about escape. It’s a song that says hold on. It’s a rhythm that reminds you that whatever you love, you do it again and again until perfection emerges. For Nikos Politakos, that’s a way of life.

“Congratulations, chef,” I tell him.

“Welcome to my home,” he says, turning back to the pass.

Service at Kinjo has officially begun.