You know why Christmas is so popular in Japan?
Because it's exactly like Japan.
It's a bunch of customs and miscellany pilfered from other places and times that did it first, and then tweaked harder than a Ph.D's bibliography page.
Anyway- Merry Christmas, everyone.
Here's one of my favorite instrumentals, first introduced to me by an old friend.
Every so often, and more often than it ought, the world handles surges of interest in fad diets. From Atkins to grapefruit to paleo, GF, or whatever else, there always seems to be something new and kitschy to try in the search for a foolproof weight loss technique. This one's got a good tagline with a faint ring of truth. It's “Japanese Women Don't Get Old Or Fat”, by Naomi Moriyama.
This
is the tale of the author, her husband, and their joint desire to
share their experiences with Japanese home cooking. It made them feel
healthier, happier, and more energetic, as well as giving them
something to research- the reasons why it might have done so, and the
history behind its development.
Opening with a wave of statistics about the Japanese lifestyle, the book touts their long lifespan, low rates of obesity and heart disease, low healthcare spending, and many other things. Always be suspicious when statistics are used as primers, because you can use said statistics to say virtually anything you want. 78% of statistics are made up on the spot because they sound so effective!
Obligatory attempt at Logos aside, the next pages turn to Pathos. First comes a dramatic monologue in honor of the culinary skill, creativity, and devotion of the author's mother. As any mother should, she gives all for her children, even if they don't always appreciate it at the time. After that comes a stern diatribe centering on how devoted the Japanese are to freshness- foods not only dated, but *timed* at the supermarkets, and even 7-11s stocking tasty, nutritious composed bento instead of prefab salads and suspect sandwiches. Then came a detour to detail the lifestyle of the glorious and rustic countryside, how everything is so vibrantly flavored, fresh, and full of life!
It all felt so transparent, so obviously fabricated- but I couldn't put my finger on why. Understanding came later.
While the “How to Start Your Tokyo Kitchen” chapter is potentially handy for the novice, the truth is that a good cook already knows what equipment they need to cook dinner, and if they don't have it, improvising isn't hard. Some of the later recipes call for Japanese-exclusive cooking gear, and the author tells you how to jury-rig one. Why not add those to the starting list of equipment in the early chapter- perhaps as a closer? That's a much more suitable time to detail where to get things a bit tougher to find.
Time and pages aplenty are spent emphasizing the importance of at-table garnishes and individual seasoning, in accordance with the Japanese tendency not to individually plate, but rather allow self-service from platters- a technique borrowed from China, just one of many.
It grows quite tedious when a portion of every recipe's ingredient list has 'to use at the table' as a caveat. Such a concept needs explaining one time. After that's done, make a separate section within the recipe for the garnishes and table condiments. It's entirely too easy to confuse an inexperienced cook by piling all the ingredients in one column without adequate direction. Considering the prospective readership, I find this to be a massive, glaring error.
A full third of the book is devoted to what's termed “The Seven Pillars of Japanese Home Cooking”. Fish, Vegetables, Rice, Soy, Noodles, Tea, and Fruit are the vaunted pillars, and while each subsection has several anecdotes and a handful of recipes, most of them are rather banal. For a book that centers around what they term 'healthy eating', the number of recipes that use, say, refined sugar as a fairly prominent ingredient is more than a little bothersome when looked at with a more professional eye.
To counteract that, there are stories aplenty that seek to emphasize the healthy, life-giving qualities of the other ingredients. There's an entire tale that centers around brown rice- the barest film of historical reference is given to the fantastic tale of Tomoe Gozen, then used to create a veneer of confidence in the nutritional superiority of brown rice. I agree with the sentiment entirely, but the method is shifty at best. Fiber isn't a miracle cure.
I admit, I wanted to like this book, but I just can't bring myself to. It's trying to be a cookbook and reference text, but it doesn't have enough recipes to be reasonable as the former, or enough hard nutrition facts to shore up the latter. Mostly it reads like a slapdash memoir, bereft of the aura of legitimacy and believability that often feels so necessary when creating a suitable referential work. It's a collection of vignettes, loosely tied together around the common theme of Japanese home cooking being healthy and happiness inducing. Likewise, the book seems to hedge its bet, making the premise sound like something a person has to try for themselves to see if it works as advertised, rather than to try it and expect results.
If you're willing to trust the book and the author's message, feel free to trust the recipes. Some of the 40-odd recipes sprinkled throughout the book might serve you well, and there is a recipe index in the back. I will not, however, offer any recommendations on which ones are worth trying.
As for me though, I'm not going to bother. This goes straight back to the library- ideally in the fiction section where it belongs.
For several reasons, I had to take a closer look at this one once I saw it on the shelf.
I actually worked in a Japanese-owned izakaya kitchen some years back, so I have firsthand experience of some of the minutiae from the opposite side of the curtain. They liked me a lot- enough that they later said they thought I could take over running the place so they could retire and go back to Nagano. But they found that out too late. Three days before I walked in and was hired, they'd sold the place. So we all commiserated in mutual regret, and I did the best I could by them, making sure everyone got quality food and service till the day the place closed.
Plenty of people are fascinated with some aspect or other of Asia, but far fewer spend the time and effort to really understand. Norms in different parts of the world vary widely, but the historical and cultural reasoning behind why they are as they are? Frequently ignored. As such, I'm always on the hunt for the uncommon volume where someone does the digging and tries to work their way back toward the origins for institutions or concepts like this.
On a related, Japan-specific note, we also have to at least gently address the Tokyo Problem. Japan is infinitely more than Tokyo, but there's a notorious habit of books getting stuck there. However, the microcosmic effect isn't quite so bad when addressing a concept that's both pretty ubiquitous and also somewhat vigorously resistant to short-term cultural trends. While this volume is centered in Tokyo, it feels more 'tight research budget' than 'tunnel vision', so I let it slide. Given the subject matter, you could almost say it's centered in Edo instead.
The book, thematically, reads a lot like an izakaya might feel. It tells many fine stories with the same casual comfort you might get from walking into one for the night. Even the layout is vaguely evocative of them- the font is small and the text cramped, but it's all tighty organized in its own way. History lessons and basic etiquette are sprinkled in between what could best be described as love songs to eight izakaya all around the city. Each very distinct in its own way, different stories highlighting all sorts of things, from the establishments or owners to their staff, customers, methods, and legacies.
Some of the historical notes are a little handwavey, noting that izakaya most likely evolved organically from noodle shops and niuriya (煮売り屋) from the Edo period onward. Things like yakitori, now often associated with izakaya, became popular later on in the Meiji period, eventually leading to the first Western-influenced izakaya, Bar Kamiya in Asakusa being opened in ~1880. This is more or less where the concept was cemented (and why I typically translate 'izakaya' as 'brewpub').
Recipes usually follow a few pages behind their pictures all throughout the book, showcasing staples as readily as strange things. Right alongside a simple surimi/udon stirfry, for example, there's a method for curing tofu in miso that's basically just "do x, y, and z, then leave it in the fridge for two years". What you get out of this book in terms of useful recipes and techniques may vary widely in accordance with your skillsets and personal preferences, but I will say there's plenty of fundamentals for the relative beginner to pick up. Similarly, there's a section on Japanese ingredients, aromatics, and flavors that offers very useful basic to intermediate information.
If you're looking for a cookbook, I'd say this is a good but not great primer for basic Japanese snacks and nibbles. If you're looking for a thoughtful, friendly look at a cornerstone of modernish Japan's culinary culture, this is a book for you. Grab a drink and something to munch, sit down somewhere that's comfy but not cushy, and enjoy them all at your leisure.
Wasn't a terribly large class, but everyone really wanted to be there and had a lot of enthusiasm- something that doesn't happen often. Did have a bit of a messy time preparing things though, since the list of allergens I was given -no dairy, no gluten, no nuts- wiped out my default snack tray plan completely. But once I figured out sufficient substitutes and made sure to buy tamari instead of more standard soy sauce, it all came together quite nicely.
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| Not bad, right? Comfy! |
For a starter, I taught them the fingertip method for rice after demonstrating a suitable rinse, and recommended a couple of rice cookers.
Sushi vinegar is a lot more than just vinegar, but mine isn't complicated.
This makes a batch large enough for a family dinner or two, and it keeps in the fridge for ages:
2 cups/500ml unseasoned rice vinegar, 1/4c / 65ml mirin, 1/2 cup/100g granulated sugar, 1 Tbsp coarse salt, and a 2"x2" piece of kombu.
Throw all that in a pot, bring to a gentle simmer for 15 minutes, and let it cool naturally.
I also showed them all a nice easy snack in Kinpira Gobo, introducing them to an uncommon ingredient in a way that makes it familiar, delicious, and easy to handle. Julienne burdock root and carrots, saute in a hot pan with oil for a couple minutes, add sake, mirin, and tamari/soy, then cook it till it's dry. Hard to be much simpler than that.
Mostly I skipped the history lesson this time, but there were a great many questions about sourcing ingredients- particularly seafood, naturally, but also brands of soy sauce, mirin, even vinegar. (I inadvertently made a short primer on soy sauce just the other day- quite informative, if I do say so myself)
The student dynamic varies widely from one cooking class to another even if naught else changes, so an educator's ability to adjust to their audience on the fly is one of the more important qualities to have honed. My personal approach starts with things everyone should hear, even if they've heard them before- safety, cleanliness, communication, etc. How they react to that allows time to adjust the meat of the matter.
It's funny, though. As much as I harp on about not giving recipes, the one recipe I did design specifically for the class is also the one every single person goes completely gonzo for, and that I get the most gratitude for sharing.
A pound/500g of sliced mushrooms (shiitake preferred, but most any will do), 1c/240ml water, 1/2c / 120ml soy sauce/tamari, 1/2c / 120ml mirin, 2Tbsp sugar, a hand's worth of ginger, and spice. Combine in a lidded pot and (again) gently cook till all but dry.
I rather like them in chawan-mushi myself, but the beauty is in their flexibility. Simple and excellent alone, or as a component of vegetarian sushi, stir fry, soup, or whatever you might deign to do with them. Understanding the principles behind the construction is what allows you to get more broad-spectrum use out of even somewhat niche preparations.
Soy in Asia is just about everywhere and in most everything. It's as solid a staple as starches like rice or wheat, and while not as popular a protein choice as pork, it's pretty prevalent.
What I wanted to expand upon is geared more toward Shoyu-醤油(JPN)/Jiangyou-醬油(CHN)/Ganjang-간장(KOR)/Soy sauce, so I have to start at the beginning, and detail some of how it's made. The key ingredient is the koji mold, or aspergillus oryzae, which occurs naturally on rice, and has been utilized for thousands of years in various applications.
Japanese-style, the process of making soy sauce (and often miso too, because the technique is similar) is fairly simple. Steam your soybeans, combine with some (usually) toasted wheat, add some koji spores, and set it in a high-humidity environment for a few days until the koji multiplies and it all gets a little fuzzy.
That's the base. It gets mixed with salt and water to make a mash (諸味/moromi, a term also used for the mash used in brewing sake), then it hangs around for as many months or years as you've got. To keep air contact more even, it gets regularly stirred, too.
Once the brewer's intended fermentation period is up, the moromi will be (in cheesecloth, muslin, or other porous thing) packed, racked, stacked, and pressed. What comes out of the mash under that pressure is the baseline raw soy sauce, that's then gently cooked to stop the fermentation process, which presumably also helps stabilize the flavor to some degree.
That's soy sauce in brief. Now for some common variants.
In Japan, you're likely to see these:
A question asked of me recently prompted a slightly deeper dig into a popular but misnamed restaurant concept. Specifically that of Teppanyaki, often mistakenly referred to as Hibachi in most of North America. I've distilled the basics here.
The word hibachi (火鉢) meaning 'fire bowl' originally refers to a type of heating device of Japanese origin. Designed to hold charcoal and heat rooms while creating minimal danger of fire, it functioned rather like a western brazier. Though due to its mostly indoor usage, most were clay, porcelain, or other fired material as opposed to the metalwork of many Western environments.
An antique Hibachi brazier
When used in English, however, hibachi sometimes also refers to small cooking grills. Hibachi grills are often quite small, and most often see use as a form of portable barbecue. They're something of a middle ground between the proper Japanese hibachi and traditional Japanese charcoal-heated cooking vessels called shichirin.
An example of a Shichirin
Considering the similarity of purposes and visuals, I can see why the concept might get garbled in translation. But really, I think it's just because hibachi is the easiest of all the terms to say, read, and write in English.
None of these terms, however, are for what you're going to get when you sit down in front of a flattop griddle with a dozen other people for dinner and a show. The rise in popularity of Teppanyaki (鉄板焼き) or “iron plate cooking” was pioneered by a Japanese restaurant called Misono (http://www.misono.org) in the Kobe region of Hyogo prefecture starting in 1945. It took the very Japanese idea of good, simple food prepared face to face, centered it around an emphasis on western-style steak, used what would become the legendary Kobe beef for said steaks, and created an icon that stands tall in Japan even now.
In the United States, the Teppanyaki method didn't quite kick off until ~1964, when a Japanese native named Hiroaki “Rocky” Aoki gave the concept a clever theatrical bent, opening Benihana on West 65th Street in New York. With the meals to be theatrically prepared by a dexterous, knife-wielding, joke-telling chef, the equal measure of flash and flavor brought rave reviews and huge popularity. Over the next few decades, the Benihana name spread over the country and other parts of the world, even online at http://www.benihana.com/. I must admit though, seeing their brand name in supermarket frozen food sections worries me. Such things always do.
So yes. When next you're craving that flash of flame from an onion volcano, or a deft-handed chef to flip a shrimp into your mouth, remember: it's Teppanyaki you want, not Hibachi.
And yes I can do it. But no, I won't do it for you.
