Oser Communications Group

THE KNIFE RACK www.kitchenwarenews.com n JUNE 2018 n KITCHENWARE NEWS & HOUSEWARES REVIEW 1 9 The Knife Rack BY GREG GONZALES Decades ago, in Pensacola, Florida, a 10- year-old Marc Wade could be found learning to make his own knives, a craft he learned f rom his father. Around the same time, a 13-year-old Rolf Hagelganz would have been in a California garage, helping his father Klaus invent a formula for metal injection molding. In the last five years, their stories came together. Earlier this year, the pair launched two lines of knives under Ferrum Technology Corporation, an Oregon company that marries precision metalforming techniques with craftsman knifemaking to make what Wade, the brand's General Manager, calls uniquely American. "Our story here is a little more close to home. I'm not Japanese — maybe you can tell by my accent," Wade said, laughing, "and my craft is f rom American knifemakers. They're mostly in the sporting world, but they're amazing craftsmen. There's a long and rich history there. In that world, it's always the hand tool first. It's not that a knife needs to have this shape, this name and look roughly like something else; it's really driven by what would work best for the situation, how to get the most utility out of form and then working backward f rom there." Wade says that he and his father ere influenced by famed bladesmith Bo Randall. "Bo was a huge influence into how my dad got into knifemaking, and certainly influenced my work," he said. "My dad is f rom North Carolina, and everybody there is required to be a duck hunter, I think. He was a poor kid and couldn't afford store-bought decoys, so he would car ve his own decoys for hunting. At that time, straight razors were falling out of fashion, and he would craft carving knives out of straight razors to make his decoys. Fast for ward years later, and he's an aviator in the Coast Guard, a search and rescue pilot. He would use car ving for a stress-relief hobby. He was sitting on the tarmac in Puerto Rico, watching some guys cut the tops off those big steel 50-gallon drums; one guy was holding a knife and the other guy had a mini sledge, and they'd just whack the back of that knife to cut the lids off these things. After about a half hour of watching that, he got out of his aircraft and walked over there; he looked at the knife, and even though it was scratched up and dinged all up the sides, the edge was perfect. He couldn't believe it. Right there on the side, it said, 'Randall Knives, Orlando, Florida.' He was stationed in Pensacola, not too far away — a 20-minute drive f rom where we live — so Dad went out there to loiter in Bo's shop, and Bo would let him because he was always nice to the service guys. My brothers and I would be the pesky kids tearing up Bo's shop. And so that's where my formal knifemaking begins." Back in 1963, Klaus Hagelganz got to experimenting with new molding processes in his garage. He founded World Class Technology, a medical device New American Cutlery Brand Combines Tech With Tradition Authentic Kitchenware Tells No Tall Tales Kanenega, connected to a rich history of Samurai swordmaking ― but the craft team, as a whole, is what makes the blades authentic. "The way Samurai swords were made is that steel was taken, heated, hammered, folded and shaped by hand, formed into a super-sharp blade. That was the tool of the Samurai," said Harr y Rosenblum, General Manager of Kikuichi New York, adding that each knife goes through at least five expert hands before it's finished. "Our Japanese blades are still made the same way today, ultimately leading to a piece of cutlery with a super- sharp edge. It's the same exact process that's been followed by Kikuichi over 750 years." Each step of the blademaking process is headed by an expert ― one person pounds out the steel, one person sharpens it, one person makes the handle, one person puts it all together, another inspects the blade for any flaws ― and the result is a machine-like precision and consistency that consumers have come to expect. The difference between a factory-made knife and a knife made by the craftsmen in Nara, Rosenblum says, is the connection to the makers and history. "I think it's the connection to other people that makes it authentic; it's an heirloom that gets passed down and forges connections to previous generations," he said. "We have such a long histor y of blademaking, if you buy a Kikuichi knife, you get connected to hundreds of years of history, and also to the craftsmen who made that knife, before it comes to you, the consumer." He added that letting the consumer in on the process helps create the authenticity of the brand; because Kikuichi's story is real and traceable, the team there can tell it proudly. "I think honesty and transparency make a brand authentic. Being able to connect to the consumer, to the people and processes that make that product, the end user becomes a part of the histor y of that product." House Copper & Cookware Owner and Founder Sara Dahmen says authenticity in kitchenware is also about getting back to roots and taking a page out of the foodie movement. "The conversation about our food needs to bleed into our cookware ― where it comes f rom, is it sustainable, where it was made, who made it, what it's made out of ― that's vastly underrepresented in kitchenware," she said. Dahmen makes much of the cookware herself, having learned f rom her uncle, a blacksmith, and a master copper and tin smith. She started an apprenticeship after diving into research for a historical fiction book, where she found an appreciation for pioneer-era cookware that lasts. Ever y piece of cookware comes out of her Wisconsin workshop. "If you're creating something f rom scratch, with pure material, and you can understand where your materials come f rom, how it's made and who's making it ― and possibly doing some of it yourself ― that's what creates an authentic cookware brand or piece," she said. " W hat makes it authentic is that whole idea that you can drive to or visit the places where it's being fabricated, or you're doing it yourself as a company, and you're working with makers and manufacturers who you can sit down and have a beer with, and you're deciding how to make your cookware, together." Her cookware is all made in the U.S., in pioneer tradition with styles f rom the 1800s, completely by hand, which she says makes her cookware even more authentic. "It's the pull of the history that creates that authenticity, because it's nostalgic, it feels neighborly, and therein is that authenticity itself." The histor y and dedication to tradition, she said, is where consumers latch on. "Your story has to feel transparent. As a brand, for what I'm trying to do, we're ver y up f ront with how we're making our products, where our materials are coming f rom, how hands-on we are ― without actually saying it, we're saying 'We're not outsourcing this and making a quick buck; we believe in offering something that's real, we can promise it's built well and with safe materials. We're doing it ourselves, we're seeing it being done.' That, I think, is something people respond to. They might not always like the price tag that comes with it, but they respect the transparency and the heart behind the philosophy and what we're inferring about our brand." What Dahmen and Rosenblum said are true to the science. According to an article published earlier this year in the Journal of Marketing Management, the way consumers perceive a brand as authentic comes f rom its "interrelated dimensions of genuineness," whether that's an emphasis on craftsmanship and style in the early stages of a brand's life, or a continued dedication to tradition and a connection to a history of artisan work as a brand matures. As long as the consumer can connect to the history, to the hands that made their knife or skillet ― when the quality or story lets them know that the product in their hand is an heirloom their family can share for generations, the message is received well. "Authenticity speaks to the heart," transparency feels good. Making something to last and knowing it will last is kind of why we're here," said Dahmen. "You want that posterity. It's why anyone does anything, why you build a bridge that lasts 200 years; it's not for you, but you want to leave something behind that's going to make a difference and last. My pot that I'm making today could be dug up in some archaeology dig in hundreds of years, and they'll know it's a copper cooking pot. That's really cool, and that's authentic." KN (cont. from Page 1) Continued on PAGE 22

• Cover