Indigo Days

Soba Ra

Soba restaurants are about as common as convenience stores or ramen shops in Japan.  You can find one on almost every corner.  There’s a lot of mediocre soba out there, less good, but great soba is rare.  The difference is cold lifelessly bland noodles dipped in overly sweet MSG-enhanced “soup,” compared to hand kneaded noodles crafted from buckwheat flour ground from the innermost kernel, accompanied by an elegant multi-layered bowl of soy and bonito broth (tsuyu).  The former is something you might eat to fill your stomach (I wouldn’t).  The latter is something you might drive an hour to “experience” (I would).

Here in our little local area of Kodama-gun, we have a great soba restaurant that rivals any more expensive and exclusive Tokyo spots.  And this restaurant has one more thing that is hard to find: a passionate chef who cares more about the food and his customers than he does about his own self-importance.  Kanji Nakatani, gravel-voiced and Polo-clad, is an anomaly in this age.  He puts together a room and his food with a fine-honed esthetic eye, but never loses sight of what it’s all about:  the food and the customers.  And that’s what keeps us going back again and again.  That warm and giving spirit.  And some of the best food I have ever eaten in Japan.

I’ve developed a fairly specialized palate, after living and cooking on an organic farm for the last 20 years in Japan.  When I eat food I can taste the quality (or not) of the ingredients and I can taste the passion (or not) of the chef.   At Soba Ra, I taste both.

On the edge of a cluster of love hotels sits the surprising Soba Ra, nestled up against the hillside and bordered by a bamboo forest.  The construction is traditional Japanese, with Kilim rugs and antique English schoolroom chairs adding a distinct Western flair.  Art Deco lamps hang over an open counter area where “Kanchan” (as he is affectionately called) wields his knife, cutting super fresh, thoughtfully selected sashimi. Kanchan creates custom sashimi plates balancing fish with tsuma.  Tsuma (“wife”) is the traditional vegetable that accompanies sashimi (usually machine slivered daikon or limp shiso leaves).  His daikon is handcut and the tsuma splashes the plate, not just as a nod to tradition, but as a way to celebrate the fish:  boiled greens, wild watercress, green onion, myoga (relative of ginger) and daikon are just a few of the vegetables he might use.

Kanchan cooks from the bottom up, and puts great effort into making the dashi and various soy sauces that form the base of traditional Japanese cooking.  He also cooks for the customer.  How is the weather?  What will people want to eat to warm them or cool them?  This is how he approaches the meal:  with empathy. 

Squares of tamogodofu, a savory egg custard, are flecked with fresh picked crabmeat (never the fake), seasonal greens and enoki mushrooms.  And after taking our last bite, we always pick up the small dishes to slurp up the broth that lingers.  Kanchan uses eggs from Tadaaki’s farm, and of course this adds a certain something to our enjoyment of an already delectable dish.  Tamagodofu is deceptive in its simplicity (as is much of Japanese cuisine), but our homemade attempts have never measured up to Kanchan’s superior rendition.

Soba is not the only reason to come to Ra.  Kanchan is a maniac for fish and his whole cooked fishes are not to be missed.  Some fish he deep-fries and then finishes with dashi flavored with soy sauce and ginger.  Other fish is marinated in miso and broiled (saikyomiso).  All are good.  No, all are great. 

Soba Ra serves a wide range of udon or soba choices from kamo jiru udon (hot duck and vegetable broth soup with wheat noodles) to tororono soba (grated taro root with raw egg and a cold soup for dipping nutty buckwheat noodles).  A departure from his flagship restaurant, Soba Ro, at Ra you can also order donburi dishes such as oyakodon (chicken, onion and egg on rice) or tendon (rice with broth simmered shrimp tempura on top).  But any choice will leave you satisfied, as I have never had a bite of food at Soba Ra (or Ro) that didn’t tantalize my grateful tongue.

 At the end of the meal, stuffed (it’s hard to resist ordering too much as you want to try everything) and completely sated, dessert arrives.  The desserts at Soba Ro have taken a long time to get right, but at Ra things seem to have clicked into place.  The black sugar custards are sweet, but not too; the cakes are moist and tasty while the sorbets strike an elegant balance between sugar and fruit.

It’s not hard to find great looking food in Japan.  This country lives for it.  The eyeball effect is everything.  But it’s not as easy to find food infused with passion or food made with artisanal or organic ingredients.  And it’s really difficult to find food that has all three:  passion, beauty and the best foodstuffs.  Soba Ra and Soba Ro have those.  And that’s rare.

 

 

 

"Soul Food"

 My mother wore a Lanz nightgown that winter.  Flannel with red and blue sprigs and a cotton lace yolk.  Her hair was wispy from the summer course of chemotherapy and her energy seemed to ebb away progressively each day.  Her gait was now unsteady and she’d sway a bit in the yellow light of her house tucked into the hillside at the top of Hemlock Road.  Her cancer was back after a short few months and I had returned to snow packed Hanover, New Hampshire to take care of her as she died.

I had come with harbingers of spring:  herbs and baby greens, wrapped lovingly in damp paper towels in the hopes of feeding her back to life and staving off what I had hoped was not inevitable.  I saw right away my folly.  My mother was not going to get better this time. 

For the first several mornings she requested bread case eggs and would eat a few bites.  Sometimes she wanted a tuna fish sandwich or a couple of Oreos.  And Diet Pepsi.  She loved Diet Pepsi.  Funny, the things that she chose to eat in those days before she decided to die. 

My husband, Tadaaki, calls it “soul food,” and he doesn’t mean fried chicken and collard greens.   You know, the childhood food that leaves you feeling deeply warm and comforted.  I suppose that’s what most people call “comfort food.”  When I was stuck in bed for 5 weeks during my first pregnancy, I asked my husband to make me bread case eggs.  I hadn’t eaten them since that winter of ’88 before coming to Japan.  But I called them “box eggs” to keep it simple for my Japanese farmer husband (whose English was not that great at the time).  He made them for me a few times and then I was done.  But now, box eggs are my oldest son Christopher’s “soul food.”  And he requests them often. 

 The thing about food, though, it’s not static.  So the box eggs I make now and the ones my mother made in the 60’s are just not the same.  Box eggs rely on good bakery pain de mie.  My mother never used puffy white bread, but she did buy at the Oroweat day-old bread store or the Pink Pastry Shop, so Acme, it wasn’t.  And although she got her eggs at the Co-op, I’m sure they were white eggs from a battery farm.  I buy my bread from an artisan baker.  The flour he uses tastes like something and the bread doesn’t lie flat and lifeless in my mouth (like some bread).  My eggs are from our free-range egg farm, so you know they’ve got to be fresh, creamy and astoundingly delicious.  Just to let you know, I’ve never tasted a better egg.  The butter is from Hokkaido and unsalted.  (I like to add my own.)

I crank my temperamental Viking up to 350˚F, hope it fires and set to work on the box eggs.  And each time I embark on preparing these well-loved eggs for my sons, I can feel my mother by my side calling her cat, "Isabelle the Oreo thief", or shaking a tin bowl of food as she beckons the raccoons lurking behind nearby trees into the circle of light emanating from the porch lamp at her front door.  And although my sons never got a chance to know their grandmother, I always feel I am giving them a small piece of her through her favorite foods:  tuna fish sandwiches, bread case eggs and Oreos.  Though I draw the line at Diet Pepsi.

Slice off the crusts of a square pain de mie with a long razor-sharp knife (don’t even think about using a serrated one).  Cut the bread into 3-inch thick boxes.  Leaving a decent 1/2–inch border, cut a square about halfway into the top of the breadbox.  Gently coax out the bread center, leaving an open box shape.  If you pull a hole out of the bottom, patch it well with some of the pulled bread.  Brush all sides with melted butter, not saturating but not sparingly.  Sprinkle lightly with sea salt and break in an egg (or two).  Try to match the egg size with the cavity size.  Sprinkle on a little more sea salt and some fresh ground Tellicherry pepper.  Pour a nice dollop of thick cream over the yolk and smooth it around the yolk with your finger (this will help keep your yolk protected from drying out).  Bake for 15 minutes.  The whites should be just about set and the yolk still smoothly orange (not withered).

Pick up the box egg and eat with your hands.  The first bite will yield a crunchy, slightly buttery toasted, yet soft mixture of bread and jiggly whites.  Soon you will get to the luscious yolk and if you have baked it just right, the yolk will break and maybe even dribble onto your hand.  As you lick your fingers and sink your teeth in one more time for another bite, you will feel deep contentment.  And this will be your “soul food” as well.

 

Wagyu

Horikoshi-san handed me the 4-kilo bag of wagyu I had ordered and shot me a look.   He did a slight head feint and his eyes lit up for a second, as he breathed the following words with uncharacteristic reverence, “Nama de taberareru.”  He often tells me I can eat the beef raw, because that’s the kind of wagyu he gets.  If the meat doesn’t look good he won’t buy it from the supplier.  He has a small shop with loyal customers that trust him, so his standards are high.

When Horikoshi-san gave me “that look,” I knew the beef that day was something extra special.  My 18-year-old son, Christopher, and I had been going through a rough spot, so on the drive home, the idea to make steak tartare for him and me jumped into my mind.  I decided to shelf the beef stew I had planned that night until the following day and for the rest of the family, just reheat the school lunch risotto.  Christopher loves steak tartare as much as I do (maybe more), but the others prefer their meat cooked. 

Touching food makes me feel alive, so back in my kitchen I didn’t waste any time tearing open the package.  I cut off a choice-looking hunk, and hand chopped the meat with a razor sharp Japanese butcher knife.  Rummaging around in the closet, I pulled out a bag of Italian salt-packed capers, and soaked a handful in cold water.  My gentle hands tossed Suka-san’s butter lettuce leaves with basil chiffonade leftover from lunch, as I drizzled in a bit of Navarro olive oil and homemade red wine vinegar.  I mounded the glistening leaves alongside the chopped wagyu, and then broke one of our farm eggs into a bowl.  With lightly cupped fingers, I scooped out the plump orange yolk and nestled it gently into a little hollow I had nudged apart in the meat.  After draining the capers, I chopped them and strew them over the meat, along with some chopped garden jalapeño and local onion.   My steak tartare only lacked a bit of bread, so I popped a couple slices of pain au levain in the toaster and finished the plate with a sprinkling of Sicilian sea salt and a few grinds of the peppermill.

Tadaaki and the boys practice the ancient samurai art of sword on Thursday afternoons, a four-hour round trip by train.  On the way home, they usually call to find out what the dinner plan is, as in our house, that’s always the question of the day.  So when Christopher called from the train to ask what was for dinner that night, I told him. 

His immediate and deeply satisfied, “Yesssss,” erased the recent tension-filled days.

I had been feeling slightly squeezed in by Japanese life during the fall.  Andrew and Matthew starting Japanese school, meant we no longer shared the same daily world as we had when homeschooling.  Now they live in Tadaaki’s world more than ever, and I have been constantly butting my head up against the inanely arbitrary school rules.  Christopher’s impending SAT’s, TOEFL’s and college applications were also causing untold anxiety (at least in one of us…and it wasn't Christopher).  I was at odds with everyone (and myself).  So the next day, I decided a deep, dark stew would restore a bit of warmth in my life.  The stew was simple, yet infused with wine and herbs...and quite simply one of the best things I have ever tasted.  Although some people turn to pharmaceuticals, food never fails to soothe what ails me.

Beef Stew (Autumn): Cut 4 lbs slightly marbled wagyu into 2-inch cubes.  Film olive oil in the bottom of a heavy cast iron pot set over hot heat and dump in the meat with a little sea salt and fresh ground pepper.  Stir fairly frequently to brown evenly.  Once the meat juices have evaporated and the meat juices start to sizzle, pour in one 750 ml bottle of moderately nice Cabernet (the meat is expensive, so don’t skimp too much on the wine, go for at least $10+ a bottle).  Bring to a boil with the top on and then simmer for about 30 to 40 minutes on medium low.  Chop 4 medium garden tomatoes (slightly green is ok) and add to stew along with 1 small head chopped rose garlic, a half handful each of chopped garden thyme and oregano and 1 cup homemade vegetable herb broth made from vegetable ends and herbs (or substitute Health Valley canned chicken broth cut 1:1 with water).  Bring back to a boil over high heat, then turn down to medium low and simmer for another 40 minutes with the top off.  Serve with milk & butter mashed potatoes, braised bok choy from the field and sautéed whole garden cherry tomatoes.

Winter Variation with onions

You know, food just never sticks in one place.  How can you make a recipe for something that is constantly changing?  The trick is to get the idea and then let your feelings find the way.  It's less about what do they have at the supermarket today (everything), than what is your favorite farm (1st priority to figure out) and what are they growing?  No garlic (obviously, not the season and the farm isn't giving up their reserves...but green garlic is available, so adjustment is easy).  I buy a year's worth of rose garlic for the school in June, since our fall crop is dicey.  But there are always so many other enticing aromatics, so I just don't miss (or need) the garlic.  That is what I love.  The serendipity and the boundaries.

Ultimately, that is freedom.

...and frozen fall cherry tomatoes

Pounding Mochi

“Gacha-gacha-gacha,” our monstrously heavy, and equally ancient front door rattles on its metal track, quickly followed by the whoosh of the wood and glass shoji inner front door.  From the energy burst of the opening and the splash of hand washing, I know it’s Tadaaki, coming in for breakfast after collecting the early morning eggs.  As he bangs brass against iron, I hear him hefting the antique stockpot onto our stove.  He sparks the flame and the soft hum of the hood fan revs up.  Christmas has come and gone, and now shogatsu (Japanese New Year) has arrived.   I’m glad it’s Tadaaki’s turn to be in charge because I have no more energy left and burrow deeper into my down covers staving off the inevitable.

Shogatsu is traditionally a family time, though that has been waning in recent years as families disperse to far cities.  But our family still follows most of the traditional practices. 

Each year on the 29^th of December, Tadaaki washes the organic glutinous rice called mochi gome that we will pound the next day.  This year Tadaaki plans to pound eight batches of mochi, so has eight pails of rice to wash and soak.  Each pail holds three kilos of rice that he has bought from our grower friend, Suka-san.  A couple years ago, Tadaaki discovered an antique rice washer upstairs in my collection of flea market finds and was excited to put it to use.  The guy I bought it from said it was an ice cream maker. I doubted that, but was attracted by the fine craftsmanship of the old wooden bucket and the low price (sad but typical).  Tadaaki soaks the rice overnight and the next morning we kick off shogatsu with a half-day of mochi making (mochi tsuki).

 Every year, we do mochi tsuki outside in the garden and by some stroke of luck, that day almost always dawns sunny.  Tadaaki wraps a pail of soaked mochi gome in a muslin cloth, puts the muslin bundle into a bamboo-steaming basket with a lid, and places it in an iron pot full of boiling water set over a wood burning fire. The glutinous rice steams for about an hour, then is plucked out of the steamer and dumped into a one meter “square,” hollowed out tree stump (usu) that Tadaaki has soaked over night.  Tadaaki’s mother prepares a bucket of cold water next to the usu for dipping in the mallet or hands before touching the sticky rice.  First Tadaaki circles the usu, smashing the rice grains with an oversized wooden mallet.  Then he wields the mallet high above his head and pounds the mass with a series of distinctively satisfying “thumps.”  The untutored tend toward squelchy, weak burps as their mallet lands on the rice.  (They probably don’t reach far enough over their head to really get the necessary leverage.)  One person pounds and another person dips his hand in the cold water, then folds the rice "dough" over itself in one quick movement in between the mallet contacting with the rice (almost like kneading bread). We invite a dozen or so friends and everyone gets a turn at pounding the mochi.  In the past, Tadaaki and his brothers worked up a sweat, but now that the kids are getting bigger, and friends have gotten more skillful, so the mallet gets passed around and mochi tsuki is truly a community event.  

 As soon as each batch of mochi is pounded, we must work quickly before it cools to an unpliable mass.  We smooth the hot mochi into half moon-shaped dumplings called kagami mochi that will be stacked up and offered to the house gods.  Tadaaki continues to pinch off misshapen globs of mochi, as we flatten them into rough circles and stretch them around a ball of anko (simmered organic azuki beans smashed with organic sugar and a little sea salt). As more batches of mochi are pounded out, I take my turn at rolling the mochi into a flat rectangle slab.  The mochi is much less temperamental than piecrust and just needs a firm, even hand.  Tadaaki’s mother used to roll the mochi out on the hall floor that opens up to the garden but in recent years Tadaaki drags out Christopher’s ping-pong table for the operation.  Once the mochi is rolled out and well powdered with potato starch, Tadaaki flips the several centimeter thick rectangle slabs onto a wooden board to dry for a couple days before cutting. 

 During the holidays we have a lot of food.  A lot.  I deal with the Christmas food, but Tadaaki’s in charge of the Japanese New Year stuff.  And every year the mochi squares start to mold before they get stuck in the freezer.  Last year, Tadaaki had (what he thought was) the brilliant idea of smoothing the hot mochi into heavy-duty plastic pickle bags to deter the mold that tends to form a few days after the mochi is fully dried. I tried to dissuade him, but he would not be budged.  Air-drying creates a delicate semi-dried crust, silky smooth from the potato starch and cool to the touch.  The gooey plastic-wrapped version just couldn’t compare.  The mochi inside the blue-lettered (unattractive) bags looked unappetizing (and was).  And in the end, Tadaaki’s “innovative” method didn’t really solve the problem of storing the mochi.

We ended up with a huge slab of mochi not cut up (so unusable) and impossible to put in the freezer (too unwieldy) and this huge slab of mochi sat in the larder (eventually molding).  I tried to reason with my very stubborn husband, but he was puffed up like a little boy about his clever new method.  Last year, I let him run with it, despite finally having to throw out the mochi that sat in the larder for a couple months.  But at the end of shogatsu this year, I enlisted Christopher’s support.  The plastic-encased mochi made me gag and I had had enough.  The air-drying process is essential to create a wicked surface against which the pounded rice will push off and puff up when broiled.  Without that surface, the broiled mochi dipped in soy sauce, then wrapped in nori is unpleasantly gummy (and Christopher agreed).  I think we’re going back to the rolling and air-drying next year.  Small victories.  Life is all about those small victories.

 At lunchtime Tadaaki’s brings out the steaming pot of kenchinjiru.  We ladle the soup out into handmade pottery bowls and Tadaaki pops a couple hot globs of mochi into each.  The mochi melts to a warm, gooey (but tasty) mass.  Definitely an aquired texture.

 Tadaaki squeezes off more freshly pounded mochi mounds into the grated purple daikon he is growing this year.  Purple.  I’ve never seen this variety and am captivated by the vibrant lavender against my antique gray pottery bowl.  Colors are one of the things I love best about Japan.  Sometimes vibrant, sometimes earthy, but always rich in hue and nuanced in texture.  I drizzle organic soy sauce over the daikon before greedily scooping a large spoonful or two onto my plate.  But every year, it is the natto mochi I crave.  Organic fermented soybeans I have aerated vigorously with chopsticks to promote the characteristic threads of natto “slime,” seasoned with a hot mustard paste and organic soy sauce.  The blandly, subtle hot mochi contrasts nicely with the fermented natto, making it slightly addicting (for natto aficionados).

 This year some of my oldest friends have come and we fall easily back on familiar topics.  I uncork the stopper of Harigaya-san’s homemade lager and pour a glass.  Life couldn’t get any better and this is one of my favorites days of the year:  no responsibility, the warm winter sun and talking leisurely with friends.  Sometimes it’s nice not to be in charge.