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ON APRIL 1, you might have been tricked by a prank: a cookie that turned out to be soap, or perhaps a pizza box revealing nothing but a salad. But in Japan, the act of culinary deception has been a meticulous art form for nearly a century. One day after April Fool’s Day, it feels only fitting to turn our attention not to the joke — but to the craft. Welcome to the world of shokuhin sanpuru: the astonishingly lifelike fake food that fills the windows of Japanese restaurants, built not to fool or frustrate, but to invite, inform, and entice.
These food samples — sanpuru, from the English “sample” — might look like steaming bowls of ramen, glistening curries, or parfaits topped with fruit that gleam like stained glass. But none are edible. They are the silent salespeople of Japan’s dining industry, born from wax, shaped by hand, and now etched into the nation’s cultural identity.
A Tradition Moulded in Wax
The tradition began, as many do, out of necessity. In the 19th century, during Japan’s Edo period, street vendors would place actual dishes on display to attract customers. But these real meals quickly spoiled in the sun, attracting flies and turning stomachs rather than tempting them.
By the early 20th century, during the Taishō Era, Japan was grappling with the limits of its still-developing photographic technology. With colour menus a distant dream, and food literacy low among the general population, a new visual language was needed. One unlikely medium stepped forward: wax.
It was Iwasaki Takizo, a candle artisan from Osaka, who would change the trajectory of Japanese food culture. Legend has it that in 1932, inspired by the sight of wax dripping from a candle, he created a lifelike replica of an omurice — omelette with ketchup rice — that so perfectly mimicked the real thing, his wife couldn’t tell the difference. That same year, he founded what is now Iwasaki Be-I, the company that would go on to dominate the food replica industry.
A Three-Dimensional Menu
For restaurants, sanpuru offered an elegant solution. Displays of these replicas — impervious to rot or decay — solved the marketing challenge of showcasing menu items in a pre-digital age. Shirokiya, a department store in Tokyo, was one of the first to embrace them, and by the 1930s, their use had become widespread.
The early crafting process involved using agar jelly to mould real food items, into which paraffin wax would be poured. Each component — from a lettuce leaf to a sliver of pickled radish — was painted and assembled with almost obsessive precision. But wax, for all its malleability, was prone to melting — a serious flaw once restaurant showcases began using lighting in the 1970s.
That era marked a shift to plastic, particularly polyvinyl chloride (PVC), as well as silicon and resin. These durable materials allowed for finer details and higher heat resistance, while still requiring the intricate hand-painting and assembly that had become the craft’s hallmark. Today, even in a world saturated with high-resolution imagery, Japanese food replicas remain overwhelmingly handmade, each one a unique work of art.
The Language of Food Without Words
Food replicas served a practical purpose, especially in post-war Japan. They helped introduce yōshoku — Western-style dishes like hamburg steak and spaghetti — to locals unfamiliar with such fare. During the U.S. occupation, sanpuru offered a navigable way for American soldiers to dine out in a country whose menus they couldn’t read. In recent decades, this benefit has extended to tourists from all over the world.
During wartime, however, even fake food was a luxury. Paraffin wax was redirected to the military effort, and food displays were banned in parts of Japan, especially if they featured rice. Some replica makers pivoted to crafting funerary items instead. But after the war, the sanpuru industry flourished once more, peaking alongside the rise of Japan’s urban dining culture.
By the 2010s, a boom in tourism sparked renewed interest in the art form. Restaurants once again saw value in offering a visual, language-free preview of their menu. Meanwhile, food replicas began to appear not just in display cases, but on keychains, smartphone stands, alarm clocks, and souvenirs. There are even workshops across Japan, particularly in Tokyo and Gujo Hachiman, Gifu Prefecture, where visitors can craft their own fake food, from tempura shrimp to gooey omelettes.
From Function to Fantasy
But what makes Japan’s fake food tradition truly intriguing is how it foreshadowed the global appetite for edible deception, notably the viral phenomenon of hyper-realistic cakes.
Where sanpuru seeks to make the inedible appear deliciously real, the new wave of visual trickery flips the formula: turning cake into uncanny objects of surprise. Think of the viral sensation "Is It Cake?", where chefs present convincing replicas of items like handbags, shoes, or even a stack of dollar bills — only to slice through them and reveal sponge and ganache.
This is not a direct inversion of the Japanese tradition, but a playful evolution of the same idea: a fascination with realism, and the delight of being fooled. In both cases, artists push the boundaries of what food (or faux food) can look like. The difference lies in intention: where sanpuru exists to inform and reassure, cake replicas aim to confound and delight.
Still, a common thread unites them. Both traditions celebrate craftsmanship, illusion, and the blurry boundary between what is real and what is artifice. Both invite the viewer into a kind of guessing game. And in a world increasingly obsessed with filters, deepfakes, and visual perfection, they offer a strangely comforting spectacle: something we know is fake — but still find utterly compelling.
In a world where everything is designed to be consumed, Japan’s fake food reminds us that some things are made to be admired, marvelled at, and — perhaps best of all — not eaten.
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