Bia

Bia isn’t the usual lone-wolf chef story. In this kitchen in a quiet corner of Roppongi, Tokyo, the vision and the hands are split. Beer Peragate Charoenpanich walked away from a corporate job to follow his obsession with food. Now he roams Japan like a hunter-gatherer, chasing ingredients, gathering inspiration. He charts the course. In the back, Chef Hiroyuki Kusaba gives it shape at the stove, plate by plate.

It’s Thai memory running headlong into Japanese discipline. Shark fin from Kesennuma. Horsehair crab from Ishikawa. Galangal, kaffir, fish sauce — filtered through kaiseki technique. Two languages on one plate.

What I saw through the lens wasn’t a show. It was a quiet back-and-forth. Beer speaking softly about direction; Kusaba responding with knife work and heat. Small adjustments, steady prep, tasting, refining. Sweat on forearms, hands moving without waste.

There’s a kind of honesty in that push and pull. No celebrity swagger, no temple-of-cuisine vibe — just two people trying to make something new without losing where it came from. It’s messy, tense, alive. The dishes may look pristine when they hit the counter, but back here it’s work, compromise, and flashes of magic.

Before the first diners walk in and the lights warm up, this is what’s here: steel, fire, and the stubborn will to keep cooking. At Bia, the story isn’t one man’s genius. It’s a partnership. A collision. And on a good night, a kind of harmony you can taste.

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