Interview with Bjorn Heiberg of TOWER KNIVES: from negative trust to lasting loyalty

Bjorn Heiberg, who runs the knife specialty shop TOWER KNIVES, is frequently portrayed in the media as “the foreigner saving Japan’s artisan culture.” But what he himself describes is far grittier, the story of an intensely rational businessperson.

What he spoke about was not a feel-good tale, but a survival strategy: how to fight your way up from “negative trust” in Japan. It’s an approach that resonates strongly with the realities of startups as well.

Could you please tell us a little about yourself?

I’ve been in Japan since fall of 1992 and in the knife industry since 2003. When I first came to Japan I worked various jobs, but I’d always had an interest in good tools and blades and found a sharpening tool overseas that I wanted to import and sell in Japan.

My first sales pitch was to a knife maker in Sakai City in Osaka, but instead of getting an order I was offered an opportunity to help with the export of their knives, and that is how my knife career started.

As I became more involved with the knife exports, I started to care about the industry itself, not just whether things sell or not.

I found better explanations were necessary, so I opened TOWER KNIVES to do this. My job here is not selling knives; it is explaining knives.

Can you explain a bit more about that?

I don’t think of my job as selling. I’m not here to sell knives; I’m here to explain them.

It’s not because I’m especially kind or because I have extra time. It’s because, after 23 years in this industry, I’ve realized that the center of a customer’s interest isn’t actually the knife itself.

In this industry, if there is no explanation, high-quality artisan tools and cheap mass-produced blades sit side-by-side and look exactly the same. If customers don't know the difference, they only choose by price, or they get tricked into buying something that doesn't fit them. When that happens, people get disappointed. And if customers are disappointed, they won't come back, which means the industry can't keep going. This is the instability I want to fix in this industry.

That is why I act as a voice for the craftsmen. They spend their lives making incredible things, but they aren't always there to speak, so I take their place and explain the skill and the time behind the work. I want people to choose based on understanding, not just the price tag.

But just explaining the knife isn't enough. I’ve noticed that even after buying a great tool, people’s minds are still filled with questions. They wonder if they made the right choice or if they are using it correctly. Buying a knife is really an act of wanting to confirm that your choice was right.

This is why I try not to let the interaction end with a simple “goodbye”. I always ask if they have any questions, and if I sense even a bit of uncertainty, I keep explaining until that anxiety is unraveled. There’s a moment when the customer’s expression changes: they get a look on their face like they’ve just woken up and everything finally clicks. Honestly, I continue this work just to witness that moment.

By staying with them until their doubts are gone, we create a relationship that doesn't depend on price. When customers feel safe and craftsmen get a fair price, the whole industry stays stable.

What was your biggest challenge in starting the business?

When I started, my biggest challenge was cultivating trust.

People often say, "you have a foreign face, so it must be easy to sell to foreigners." In reality, it was the exact opposite. To foreign customers, I was a foreigner running a shop that might not be authentic. But to Japanese customers, I was a foreigner who couldn't possibly understand their craft. I wasn’t starting from zero; I was starting from a negative score.

This reality hit hard in 2011. I opened my first shop in Osaka in January, and for the first few months, almost no one walked through the door. Then, the 2011 earthquake struck. Foreign tourists vanished instantly.

With no tourists, I had to face a tough reality: I had to become part of the local community. My face made me look like an outsider, so I had to prove that I belonged here. To do that, I set two simple but absolute rules that I still follow: greeting and cleaning.

Every single day, I greeted everyone who passed by. At first, the locals were a bit reserved, but after seeing the same face and hearing the same greeting every day, the shop shifted from "that strange foreigner’s place" to "the shop that’s always there."

We also cleaned. Not just my store, but the entire street around it. We scrubbed away graffiti and picked up litter daily. It wasn't just about tidiness; it was a silent statement: "I value this neighborhood." Slowly, the atmosphere changed. People who used to drop trash started putting it in their pockets. The graffiti never came back. By showing respect for the place, I earned the community's respect in return.

Opening a shop in Tokyo: how did you bridge the gap from Osaka?

By the time I was running my shop in Osaka, I felt very much at home. I had become an "Osaka-jin." I spent my time at local standing bars, picking up the rough, casual dialect and the fast-paced rhythm of the city. I was comfortable. But when I decided to open a shop in Tokyo in July 2015, I felt a massive wave of tension. To be honest, even now, I still get a bit nervous whenever I come to Tokyo.

The gap between the two cities was big. In Osaka, I had my own specific tempo and distance for conversation. But in Tokyo, I realized immediately that the same approach wouldn't work. The air was different; it was more formal, more polite. I knew that if I didn't adjust, I wouldn't be able to build trust.

This is where my belief that "language is a tool" really came into play. It isn’t enough just to have the tools in your box; you have to know how to use them. In Osaka, my "tool" was that casual, friendly style. But for Tokyo, I had to sharpen a different tool. I changed my way of speaking to be more professional and much more polite. I adjusted my timing and carefully chose my words to fit the business atmosphere of the capital.

It wasn’t about which style was ‘correct.’ It was about what was right for the person standing in front of me. Whether I’m in the middle of a noisy Osaka crowd or in a quiet, polite Tokyo office, my goal is always the same: to sense the atmosphere and adjust my communication so the message actually lands.

Expanding to Tokyo taught me that as the environment changes, you must change too. You can't just push your own way. You have to watch the person, listen to the room, and choose the right tool for that moment. That flexibility is exactly what allowed me to bridge the gap and grow the business beyond Osaka.

Can you tell us about a moment you’ll never forget?

People often ask if there’s one customer or one story that stands out, but to be honest, there are far too many to choose just one. When I look back, I’ve so many memories. These are people whose expressions completely changed the moment they finally understood the connection between a knife and the food it creates.

I remember a chef from Northern Europe who had been working in a sushi restaurant for five years. When he came into my shop and I explained the knives to him, including how the edge of the blade actually affects the texture and flavor of the fish, he suddenly looked like he was about to cry. He told me that for five years, he didn't realize what he was doing and he didn't understand that the knife was this important. He realized right then that he might have been damaging the fish all those years without knowing it. Now, he’s returned over ten times; all the way from Europe!

Another memory started with something as simple as a restroom. A tour guide asked to use our toilet, and while the guests were waiting, they started looking at the knives. One guest got so excited they said they didn't want to leave! They realized that the delicious Japanese food they were eating was physically supported by the sharpness of these tools. That connection was so powerful that the tour company has been bringing guests to us almost every day for the last 14 years.

In both stories, the important thing wasn't that a knife was sold. It was the moment when two separate things, the taste of Japanese cuisine and the sharpness of a Japanese knife, connected into a single line in the customer’s mind.

That is what I value most. It’s that “a-ha moment” when someone’s face lights up as if they’ve just woken up. It’s not the price that brings people back; it’s the experience of finally understanding the truth. When a customer moves from doubt to a deep sense of satisfaction, they don't just buy a tool. They gain a new perspective. Seeing that change in their eyes is exactly why I’ve continued this work for 23 years.

What advice would you give to those considering starting a business in Japan?

When we are talking about business, it always comes back to the basics of life. And there is one word that always comes up. That word is EN (縁), connection.

For me, EN  is not something that just happens by accident. It is something born from moving yourself and starting something yourself. The starting point for that is a greeting. If you don't greet people, the connection never begins.

A greeting is not just a formality. I believe it means truly seeing the person in front of you. The root of this thinking comes from a word I was taught during my travels when I was young. In the Zulu language of Africa, there is the word  sawubona. It means "I see you." A greeting is an expression of your will to properly acknowledge the other person’s existence.

This way of thinking is consistent even within my company. I always say that the higher your position, the more responsibility you have to greet others first. If the boss doesn't speak first, the staff cannot feel safe enough to greet them. A manager is only a manager because they have their team, and even a CEO cannot exist without their employees. That is why I believe those in higher positions have the responsibility to be the first to reach out.

It is the same in the small moments of daily life. Instead of looking at your smartphone on the train, try talking to the person next to you. From there, an unexpected connection might be born. It can be in English or Japanese. It doesn't have to be perfect. If you greet someone with a smile, I believe that attitude will be felt.

When you face people like this and continue to value these connections, there is one thing that remains at the end. That is the smile.

I am not just talking about the smiles of my customers. The smiles of my staff are just as important. If people only want money, there are plenty of other workplaces. Even so, the fact that so many people come to work, work with a smile, and go home with a smile is what I am proud of more than anything.

The fact that a smile remains means that the relationship with that person is moving well. And it is because these human relationships continue that the business continues too. My business is about knives, but it has always been a story about people.

In a place where trust started from a negative score, we greeted people, faced them directly, explained the craft, and created smiles. The accumulation of those daily actions is what grew the shop, the company, the community, and the connections I have today.

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