April 30, 2026

I sharpen knives for a living. And over the years, my customers have asked me the same questions again and again:

"What makes a good knife?"
"Is this knife worth sharpening?"
"Which one of these should I keep?"

The knife industry will tell you that price is determined by blade thickness, steel type, handle construction, and the labor involved in making it. All of that is true. But after years of holding thousands of knives — beautiful ones, broken ones, rusty ones — my definition of a "good knife" has become something much simpler.

A good knife is one that its owner actually uses.

I've seen stunning knives — hand-forged, premium steel, the kind that belong in a magazine — sitting in a drawer, barely touched. Maybe the owner was afraid to scratch it. Maybe it felt wrong for their kitchen. Whatever the reason, a knife that isn't being used is, to me, not a good knife.

There's a particular kind of sadness in seeing a high-end knife that was bought with excitement, chipped in a cramped kitchen, then put away because the owner didn't know how to sharpen it — and eventually left to rust. The knife isn't at fault. The owner isn't really at fault either. But it's clearly not the right knife for that person's life.

On the other end of the spectrum, I've been handed knives that were black with rust, with a warped edge and a broken handle. Clearly not expensive. Clearly well past their prime.

When I tell the owner, "Restoration and repair will cost you $40 — are you sure?", sometimes they don't even hesitate.

"Please fix it."

That knife, I think, is a good knife — at least for that person. It has fed their family for decades. It was there every morning, every holiday meal, every ordinary Tuesday. It became a companion. No other knife in the world could replace what that one represents.

Here's what I've come to believe after years at the sharpening wheel: you don't buy a good knife — you develop one.

An ordinary knife, used consistently and cared for over time, becomes a good knife. You learn its weight. You adjust your grip. You understand how it moves through different foods. Eventually, that knife fits your hand better than any other.

This means that a "hard-to-love" knife is also a real thing. If a knife is too heavy, too light, too big, or too awkward to hold — it will never become a good knife for you, no matter how much it cost. The relationship will never form.

Through years of sharpening, I've developed a few strong opinions about construction.

Overly elaborate designs — with decorative grooves, sharp angles, and ornate handles — look impressive on a shelf, but collect grime in every crevice. That grime becomes bacteria. That bacteria discolors the handle and creates unpleasant odors. Hygiene matters more than aesthetics.

The thing I dislike most, however, is colored coating on the blade — fluorine coatings, titanium coatings, blades painted red or white or blue. When you sharpen a coated knife, the coating peels away and the knife looks worse than if it had never been coated at all. It's a finish that punishes use.

I feel quite differently, though, about traditional finishes. The dark oxidized surface of a kurouchi (black-forged) knife is designed to age gracefully — as you sharpen it over the years, the dark patina recedes naturally and the knife tells the story of its use. Damascus steel patterns, meanwhile, don't disappear with sharpening — they emerge more beautifully the more the knife is worked. These are finishes that reward a long relationship.

When someone asks me what knife to buy, I always give the same answer: spend a little more than feels comfortable, but not so much that you're afraid to use it.

If a knife is too expensive, you'll hesitate to sharpen it, hesitate to use it hard, and eventually stop using it altogether. That's the wrong relationship with a tool.

If it's too cheap, you'll reach the limits of what it can do, maintenance will feel like too much trouble, and you'll throw it away instead of caring for it.

The sweet spot is a knife where the quality isn't immediately obvious — no flashy features, nothing that jumps out — but it costs just a little more than you'd normally spend. Buy that knife. Then use it until it wears thin.

When a knife has been sharpened so many times that the blade has grown narrow, when it has shaped itself to your cooking over years of use — by then, you'll no longer need to ask anyone what makes a good knife. You'll already know exactly what you need.