By now, those of you who know me well (or who read this blog regularly) probably realize that I have a big crush on soba. While some foreigners who live in Japan become obsessed with ramen, ramen, and yet more ramen, I fell hard for soba. Not just any soba, but Shinshū soba, which hails from mountainous Nagano prefecture in central Japan. (“Shinshū” refers to Shinano province, Nagano’s former name.) Why soba? It’s not a crowd pleaser like ramen, curry, or other Japanese favorites, perhaps due to its perception as “health food” in the west. While traditionally prepared soba noodles are indeed very healthy (high in protein and fiber, nearly devoid of animal products, and almost always accompanied by some sort of vegetable), this is not why they appeal to me. Rather, I am drawn to the painstaking process and ritual that surrounds their creation, their minimalist presentation, their hand-hewn texture and earthy flavor, and of course the sheer fun of slurping them up.

Buckwheat’s presence in Japan likely dates back to the Jōmon period (c. 10,000 – 300 B.C.), although whether it was actually widely consumed is a matter of debate. What does seem certain, however, is that it was cultivated out of necessity. Unlike rice, buckwheat is a fast-growing and hardy grain that thrives in poor, thin, mountainous soil (of which there is a great deal in Japan). Buckwheat was therefore a critical backup crop in areas where growing rice could be unpredictable at best or unsuccessful at worst.

Today, Nagano prefecture remains synonymous with buckwheat, and Shinshū soba is widely considered some of the best in Japan. The most common noodles, known as nihachi, are typically  made with a 2:8 ratio of wheat to buckwheat flours, which produces a pleasingly rough, nubby, and rustic noodle. (The small amount of wheat flour helps bind the noodles, as buckwheat is gluten-free and therefore nearly impossible to wrestle into a cohesive dough.) One step higher in the soba hierarchy are jūwari noodles, which are made from 100% buckwheat. These are considerably darker and more strongly flavored, and, at least by some accounts, superior to nihachi and other varieties.

At Soba Alps in Matsumoto’s Asama Onsen neighborhood, customers can order three varieties of noodles, each made with different proportions of buckwheat flour. The shop’s staff will urge you to begin with the refined mizu soba (“water soba”), which are to be eaten after a quick dip in icy mountain spring water. From there, they’ll advise you to taste the two other noodles (nihachi and jūwari) first with water, then with a pinch of salt placed on the tip of your chopsticks. Then and only then should you begin dipping the noodles in tsuyu, the strong, soy sauce and dashi-based sauce that usually accompanies cold soba. (Below from left, “water” soba, nihachi soba, and jūwari soba.)

Regardless of the ratio used to make Shinshū soba, they are usually best enjoyed as zaru soba or mori soba, wherein cold noodles are dipped in tsuyu mixed with various spicy condiments, collectively known as yakumi. According to purists (including yours truly), this is best way to appreciate the delicate texture and subtle flavor of handmade soba.

At the Azumino branch of Kuruma-ya, the gossamer noodles are served alongside generous portions of sliced green onion and freshly grated, locally grown wasabi.

The noodles at Kuruma-ya’s main Kiso branch, on the other hand, are thicker, darker, and more complex. These hearty noodles can stand up to any topping, whether a simple garnish of shredded nori or a mass of grated mountain yam (tororo) topped with a raw, quivering quail egg.

Vegetable tempura is a common accompaniment to zaru soba that adds much-needed richness and heft to an otherwise lean meal. These noodles, from the Ueda branch of Kusabue, were admittedly not spectacular. Yet having seen the labor that went into making them, it was difficult to not appreciate them on some level.

Perhaps the best place to get a soba fix is at the annual Matsumoto soba festival. Every autumn, as the days grow shorter and summer’s bounty fades from memory, farmers across Nagano fell their buckwheat crop. In September, the fields are still a white carpet of tiny blooms.

By October, however, the plants have been culled and the land laid fallow. To celebrate the harvest, the city of Matsumoto hosts a three-day gathering of noodle producers and lovers from across the country. Two years ago, I was smitten by this bracing bowl of toothsome cold noodles with fresh Nagano-grown wasabi greens, green onions, and shichimi.

This year’s festival brought unusual variations, too, with accents like kaiware daikon (daikon radish sprouts) and crushed egoma (the seed of a shiso-like plant [Perilla frutescens var. frutescens], renowned for its medicinal qualities) finding a place among more common toppings like negi and fishcake.

Of all the soba I tried in Nagano, however, none were as comforting as the noodles at Inaka-ya, a small family-owned shop on the eastern outskirts of Matsumoto. I’ll say more about them in a later post, but suffice it to say that their noodles are fantastic. Made using a 9:1 ratio from flour milled in-house, they have the lovely, distinctly nutty flavor of freshly ground buckwheat and a delicate texture that belies their rusticity.

Kamo Nanban Soba / 鴨南蛮そば

(Soba noodles with duck)

Serves 2

This recipe comes by way of Harumi Kurihara’s Everyday Harumi, which offers a nice introduction to Japanese home cooking. The writing can be awkward at times, but the recipes are spot-on: simple, modern, and of course delicious. Gorgeous, muted photos printed on heavy matte paper make this book a pleasure to look at, too.

For this dish, I highly recommend making your own dashi from scratch. When it comes to soba (and most other Japanese dishes, for that matter), the quality of the seasoning is hugely important, because there are so few ingredients. Powdered dashi (dashi no moto) can be substituted here, but the result will not be particularly tasty. Homemade dashi is incredibly simple to make, so why not give it a try?

For the soup:

2 pieces konbu (dried kelp)

2-3 handfuls katsuobushi (bonito flakes)*

90 ml (about 1/3 cup) shōyu (Japanese soy sauce)

90 ml (about 1/3 cup) mirin

For the noodles:

200 grams (about 7 ounces) skin-on duck breast, thinly sliced against the grain**

10 medium or 15 large scallions, trimmed and cut into about 4 cm (1-1/2 inch) lengths

200 grams (about 7 ounces) dried soba noodles, preferably Shinshū soba (信州そば)

Shichimi tōgarashi, for garnish

To make the soup:

Place the konbu in a large saucepan or stockpot and cover with 1.2 liters (about 5 cups) cold water. Let sit for 30 minutes. Set the pan over medium heat. Just before the water comes to a boil, remove the konbu and reserve, if desired, to make niban dashi (more on which below). Turn down the heat slightly and add the katsuobushi. Turn up the heat again. When the water comes to a boil, immediately turn off the heat and let the katsuobushi steep until they have settled to the bottom of the pan, about 5-10 minutes. Strain through a piece of cheesecloth or a clean kitchen towel into a bowl, reserving the katsuobushi if you’d like to make niban dashi.

For the noodles:

Measure out 600 ml (about 2-1/2 cups) dashi into a saucepan and add the soy sauce and mirin. Bring to a simmer and add the duck. Continue cooking or a minute or two, skimming away any scum from the surface. Add the scallions and continue cooking until the duck is just cooked through and the scallions have softened. Cover and keep warm.

Meanwhile, bring a large pot of unsalted water to a boil. Add the noodles and cook according to package instructions (usually about 5 minutes). Drain the noodles and divide between serving bowls. Ladle the hot soup mixture over the noodles and garnish with shichimi, if desired.

Notes:

*How much katsuobushi you use depends on how “fishy” you like your dashi. For this recipe, I would advise using about 2 handfuls.

**I usually trim away any excess fat, leaving the skin intact, but skinless is okay, too.

Niban dashi (literally, “second dashi”) is made using konbu and katsuobushi leftover from making ichiban dashi (“first dashi”). Niban dashi has a less delicate flavor than ichiban and is therefore better suited to simmered dishes and sauces, where the delicacy of ichiban dashi would be overpowered by other ingredients. To make niban dashi, take the reserved konbu and katsuobushi from a batch of ichiban dashi, place in a large saucepan, and cover with about 1.2 liters (6 cups) cold water. Place over medium heat. Just before the water comes to a boil, remove the konbu. Reduce heat and simmer for about 10 minutes. Add an additional handful of katsuobushi and remove from heat. Let sit until the katsuobushi have settled to the bottom of the pot. Strain through cheesecloth and store in fridge for up to 3 days or in freezer up to 1 week.

Every new year, we promise ourselves new lives, new looks, new selves. Yet by the end of the first week of January, how many of us still feel that motivation, that tug toward self-improvement? Think for a moment now: what if every day were lived with that sort of mindfulness and deliberation, of keeping our promises to others and ourselves? What would that feel like, and who would we become? We might not necessarily become better, or wiser, or more beautiful, but perhaps we would live with a greater appreciation for incremental change, the gradual completion of a project, the assiduous chiseling of an idea, the slow and uncertain progress that underlies day-to-day existence.

And so it is in this new year that I find myself caught in between, somewhat ungrounded, both my heart and my stomach tugged in two directions. In such a situation, the surety of any resolution seems futile. One day I am overjoyed to be in New York, land of endless eating opportunities (Vietnamese! Ethiopian! Cuban! Italian! Nepalese! Ecuadorian!), and the next I yearn for the smells and tastes of winter in Japan: an afternoon snack of fragrant tangerines and genmaicha, soothing soups and hot pots, rice cooked with chestnuts, a piping hot bowl of udon on a frigid day. My appetite is rootless, torn between the rich, long-cooked comfort foods of childhood and the sustaining, earthy fare I came to know and love in my life halfway across the world.

Reaching a compromise between these two desires in my own cooking has not been easy. However, one of the best answers I have found to date came in the form of a simple sweet potato and miso soup, by way of Cooking in the Moment by Andrea Reusing. You’ve probably heard of her already, as both she and her book have received a fair amount of good press, all of it well-deserved. (Her restaurant, too, is apparently worth a visit, though I have not had the pleasure of eating there.) Simply put, this book is an understated gem. As soon as I began to peruse Ms. Reusing’s recipes, I sensed a kinship with her cooking sensibility and way with food. This is uncomplicated, unfussy fare, driven not by technique but largely by the products of a particular region.

Sound familiar? It should, but please don’t let that turn you away. Perhaps local is old hat by now, but the beauty of this book is that it gives the concept of eating locally a unique voice and context. Again and again, the stories in Ms. Reusing’s book remind you that she is committed to one place and, by extension, the people, the weather, the foods, the history, and the memories that make that place come alive for her. Thankfully, her writing elucidates these ideas beautifully and honestly, without a hint of pretentiousness.

Yet where her book really sets itself apart is in the nuanced handling of far-flung flavors – a sprinkling of fruity cardamom enlivens creamed spinach, and the nutty richness of black sesame offsets the bite and snappy crunch of watercress, and rusty red shichimi tōgarashi provides a beautiful visual contrast for vibrant green edamame. The soup takes a similar tack, pairing white-fleshed sweet potatoes (known as satsumaimo in Japan) and puréeing them into silky submission with sweet white miso and a touch of cream. Staying true to the ethos of the recipe, I used three orange sweet potatoes in lieu of the four white ones called for in the recipe. A few snow-white parsnips and pale yellow carrots filled in for the missing tuber, while two extremely tart apples tempered any excess sweetness from the vegetables. The result? The best of both worlds, I’d say.

White (Or Orange) Sweet Potato and Miso Soup

The rich, sweet flavors of the root vegetables in this soup are amplified by the miso, sake, and mirin – all ingredients used to build complexity in Japanese cuisine.

Adapted from Cooking in the Moment by Andrea Reusing

Serves 6 to 8

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

3 medium-large onions, thinly sliced (about 5 cups)

2 tablespoons chopped fresh ginger

3 garlic cloves, chopped

Kosher salt & freshly ground black pepper

1/4 cup dry white wine

1 1/2 pounds (about 3) orange sweet potatoes, peeled and and sliced into 1/2-inch thick rounds

2 medium parsnips, peeled, cored if necessary, and sliced into 1/2-inch thick rounds

2 medium yellow carrots, peeled and cut into 1/2-inch thick rounds

1/2 cup sake

2 tablespoons mirin

1/2 cup heavy cream

2 tart apples, peeled, quartered, cored, and cut into 1/2-inch pieces

3 tablespoons sweet white miso (shiro miso / 白味噌)

Crème fraîche and thinly sliced scallions, for garnish

Heat oil in heavy stock pot over low heat. Add the onions, ginger, garlic, 1 teaspoon salt, and 1/4 teaspoon pepper. Cover and cook over low heat until onions are soft but not browned, about 20 minutes.

Add wine and cook, uncovered, about 5 minutes, until reduced. Add sweet potatoes, parsnips, carrots, 5 cups water, sake, mirin, cream, and 2 teaspoons salt.

Cover and simmer until sweet potatoes are half-tender, about 6 minutes. Add apples and cook until sweet potatoes and apples are tender, about 10 minutes more. Remove from heat, add miso, and puree. Thin with water if desired and check seasoning. Garnish with crème fraîche and scallions.

Ohisashiburi desu ne. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? It feels good to be back, though in some sense I’m not really back but rather away. Pieces of this post were written some time ago, but as usual I let them languish in some dusty corner of my computer for weeks. Then in October I left Japan and embarked on a month-long trip through Germany, Croatia, Slovenia, and now, France. (Next: Iceland). Rest assured, though: I expect to resume a more normal posting schedule once I return to the States at the end of this month. Until then, here are some snapshots and musings from a very memorable meal.

Back in early October, in an unusual fit of extravagance, Steven and I made a dinner reservation at Hikariya Higashi, one of Matsumoto’s best restaurants for kaiseki ryōri, Japanese cuisine’s most elegant iteration. Kaiseki traces its roots to Kyōto’s tea ceremony, but today distinct regional iterations can be found across Japan. Regardless of location, however, the principles of rigorous seasonality, pristine ingredients, and exquisite presentation are at the heart of any kaiseki meal.

Hikariya Higashi’s chef, Miyano Hiroaki, originally hails from Kyōto, and his food reflects that city’s refined and vegetable-centric style of cooking. The ingredients he uses, however, are pure Nagano: mushrooms, walnuts, chestnuts, Shinshū miso, mountain vegetables, fresh wasabi, and grapes are just a few of the regional, seasonal specialties that appeared in our meal.

After removing our shoes in the restaurant’s entrance, we were led into a serene private dining room and took out seats a low, black table. Soft tatami mats muffled the sounds of servers shuffling between rooms, and a lantern placed on the floor cast subtle shadows across a painted wooden screen. We settled into our seats and gazed at the landscaped garden outside, sipping glasses of an umeshu-like liqueur made from local prune plums.

We were first presented with a small lacquer tray that contained three dishes: the first, our server explained, was a type of slightly bitter mountain vegetable cooked with miso. The first taste was strangely sweet – a distinct vegetal flavor amplified by mirin and sugar – but this soon faded to a mild bitterness that lingered at the back of our palates. I suspect it was fukinotō miso, a common way of preserving one of spring’s first wild vegetables.

Next, we savored kinoko oshitashi (literally, soaked mushrooms), plucking tiny shimeji mushrooms from a cup of cold dashi. Hidden among the mushrooms were bits of emerald spinach leaves and bright yellow chrysanthemum, both of which were imbued with the broth’s delicate, ethereal flavor.

The crowning jewel of this trio was a tiny glass of what looked like ice studded with pomegranate seeds. We spooned up the soupy mixture and were surprised to discover that the “ice” was in fact daikon oroshi (finely grated daikon radish) mixed with skinless segments of muscat and concord grapes, more mushrooms, and pomegranate, all brightened by the gentle tanginess of rice vinegar. It was one of the most astonishingly delicious combinations I have ever tasted, yet it only lasted two bites.

Sashimi, while somewhat out of place in a meal of mountain vegetables, was presented in a shallow, pale pink ceramic bowl. It seemed to be a blooming flower, or perhaps a shell opening to reveal pearls within. Indeed, we were told this dish was intended to evoke an origin or a beginning, the start of life. A snow-white piece of daikon had been carved into an elaborate sculpture to support the fish, which itself had been cut with equal precision. Fresh Nagano wasabi, tiny broccoli sprouts, and a chrysanthemum blossom added pops of visual contrast to an otherwise subdued palate of pinks and whites. The whole dish was highly suggestive, even outright sexual, which seems somehow fitting for a dish of raw, unadorned flesh.

Next were two simmered dishes. The first was buta no kakuni, a small cube of pork belly simmered in a sweet-salty mix of shōyu, sake, and sugar. Surrounding the meat were a single floret of broccoli, a silky soft piece of negi (Japanese leek), and a shriveled cherry tomato, all simmered in the same sauce. The meat itself was deep red, almost the color of beef, and so tender that it could easily be pulled apart with chopsticks. Barely a trace of fat remained between the layers, yet the sauce itself was not overly oily. I pondered this for a while, wondering how the chefs had accomplished such a feat of flavor and texture. It was almost as if the fat had been directly injected into and trapped within the meat, unable to leach out into the sauce. Sous vide cooking seemed a likely explanation, but I didn’t bother to ask: sometimes, food is simply better when enjoyed and not analyzed.

Second was half a baby kabocha, scooped clean of its seeds and fibers, swimming in a thick, golden dashi-based sauce. Nestled in the squash’s cavity were taro root, Romano beans, and a crosshatched morsel of scallop, all of which had been simmered in the same manner. The squash gave way to gentle pressure from our chopsticks, its dry, sweet flesh melding with the viscous sauce.

Next, an assortment of foods in autumnal shades of gold, flax, and brown was placed before us. On the left, a pile of walnuts bound by crystallized honey, and a tiny satsumaimo chakin (pureed sweet potato shaped to resemble a chestnut), studded with a single toasted pine nut. To the right, a dish of deeply savory simmered konnyaku dusted with katsuobushi. These were arranged along a rustic ceramic tray adorned with a deep green cedar branch. The only other color came from a white and pink pickled ginger stem, which lay angled across a piece of miso-marinated grilled fish. Viewed abstractly, the plate evoked a patch of wild mushrooms sprouting from a felled tree on the forest floor.

In a traditional kaiseki meal, grilled foods are traditionally followed by agemono, or fried foods. However, we had selected a smaller seven-course meal that included neither a fried dish nor a soup course. So, our grilled fish was followed by a cold, texturally challenging sunomono, or vinegared dish. A dish emblazoned with Hokusai’s famous woodblock print of Mount Fuji was filled with mozuku, a stringy and somewhat slimy seaweed. A piece of crunchy, briny kazunoko, flanked by pickled cucumber and a blob of slippery grated nagaimo (mountain yam) rounded out the dish. Even though this dish was not entirely satisfying, its careful composition and play of textures certainly reflected kaiseki’s cerebral side.

To finish, the holy trio of Japanese cuisine: rice, pickles, and soup. Shiny, perfectly cooked koshihikari rice was presented alongside a dish of sanshō chirimenjako (dried baby fish with Sichuan peppercorns), which we liberally sprinkled over the rice. Slightly spicy pickled fuki (a type of mountain vegetable) and an inky miso soup adorned with curls of freeze-dried tofu and spinach provided the requisite punches of umami goodness between each bite.

Finally, we sipped palate-cleansing sencha and nibbled on higashi (molded dried sweets in the shape of momiji, Japanese maple leaves) and konpeitō (tiny hard candies), which softened the tea’s tannic edge. Had it not been for this brief caffeine jolt, we likely would have languished in our seats for another hour, recalling each dish in vivid detail.

After our meal, walking home along Matsumoto’s deserted streets, we stopped at a small shrine by the side of the road. Suddenly, a flock of ravens took flight, their lustrous feathers flashing in the moonlight against an inky, starry sky. As they cawed and crowed, a light breeze passed through, rustling the white paper shide strung overhead for a Shintō festival. At that moment, the presence of something – something not human, not animal, but other – made itself known. There was no mistaking the sensation that we were not alone. Perhaps it was simply autumn’s chill seeping through our sweaters, but to offer such an explanation would be missing the point.

At that moment, we both felt a connection to another Japan, long past, that is still palpable in the vibrant, percussive music of summer festivals; the annual planting, tending, and harvesting of rice paddies; the continual rebuilding of shrines; the mountains that keep watch over Matsumoto year after year. We understood, in other words, what our meal had conveyed so elegantly: life begets life, but so too does death. And so just as the present must become past, the past makes sense of the present. For every summer there is a fall, for every winter a spring, and for every season there is a way to eat that respects life – both our own, and those that came before us.

Ohisashiburi desu! It’s been a while, hasn’t it? It feels good to be back, though in some sense I’m not really back but rather away. Indeed, much has changed since my last post here. On October 24th, I boarded a plane at Tokyo’s Narita airport and bid a very teary farewell to my friends, colleagues, and adopted home for the past two years. Deciding to leave was not easy, and in the process I found myself grappling with many questions of belonging and place. Although my time in Japan was relatively short, much about my personality – and my way of viewing the world – has changed. Japan and the people I met there deepened my appreciation for community, trust, persistence, mutual respect, and teamwork. And although my family and upbringing in America taught me to be receptive of these values, Japan truly instilled them in me.

For now, however, the time has come for me to return to my family and friends in the States and pursue a new path. Please be assured, this does not mean Shichimi will become inactive. Although I will no longer be writing to you from Japan, I plan to continue exploring this marvelous cuisine and culture from afar. So please stay posted for more musings, photos, and recipes, and thanks for reading, as always.

~ Emma

Picture, for a moment, your favorite neighborhood bar. Not a fancy place, just the kind of establishment you might drop by after work for a beer and a few bites. Now, imagine that it’s run by a tough as nails sushi chef, her semi-professional bowler husband, and their awesome punk rock daughter. It’s an unusual place, especially given that female sushi chefs are a rarity in Japan. But what keeps me coming back is not the novelty but the warmth of the Fujisawa family and their insanely satisfying and comforting food. Moreover, the shop has been around for thirty years, as noted on the noren above (おかげさまで三十数年 – “thank you for thirty years”). They must be doing something right, no?

(Before beginning, I should note that the owners’ daughter, Chifumi, is a friend of Steven’s and mine. Even if she weren’t, we’d still eat at Sushi Ten, and I’d still write about their food.)

When you sit down at the narrow wooden counter at Sushi Ten, someone will bring you a glass of water and the otōshi. This dish — a snack, really — comes with the sitting fee that most izakaya charge their customers. On a hot summer’s day, you might be served a tiny dish of crunchy, vinegared cucumbers and tiny, chewy squid tentacles, brightened with some snippets of dried red chile.

In cooler weather, you could expect a salty-sweet nimono (simmered dish) of daikon, carrots, onions, and potatoes stewed in dashi, mirin, and soy sauce.

The menu, which is handwritten on slips of paper tacked to the wall, can be challenging to read. If you’re confused, just order the basic sushi set and watch as chef Fujisawa pats the seasoned rice into ovals for nigirizushi. As her small, quick hands work their magic, she’ll place the sushi directly onto the wooden counter in front of you. Here we have tamagoyaki (sweet omelet), maguro (tuna), sake (salmon) topped with ikura (salmon roe), ika (squid) wrapped with shiso, ebi (shrimp), tai (sea bream) and more maguro in the form of makizushi.

Even if you’re completely stuffed by this point, you’ll also receive a generous slice of futomaki, a large roll stuffed with kanpyō (strips of dried gourd), cucumber, beni shōga (red pickled ginger) and tamagoyaki. A decadent inarizushi (a deep-fried, sweet tofu skin stuffed with sushi rice) comes embellished with a mayonnaise-bound salad of carrots and cucumber, the richness offset by shiso and the salty pop of ikura.

Somewhat incongruous but still delicious, a kushiage (fried skewer) of eggplant, green pepper, and chicken is also included in the sushi set. For added oomph, you can dip the ketchup-drizzled skewer in sweet Japanese-style mayonnaise.

Of course, no meal of sushi would be complete without miso soup, cloudy and complex in its lacquer bowl. A tiny dried anchovy head lurked at the bottom of this particular bowl – a giveaway that the stock was made from scratch. The soup’s intensely briny flavor indicated as much, too.

While Steven invariably orders the aforementioned set, I usually forgo Sushi Ten’s namesake offering and instead choose a variety of small dishes, mostly vegetable-based, from the ever-changing wall menu.

The best way to start, in my opinion, is with garlic, fried whole in its skin and garnished with sea salt. A quick bath in hot oil transforms the somewhat bitter raw cloves into silky smooth, sweet morsels – the perfect accompaniment for cold Japanese beer.

Next, juicy asparagus wrapped in pork belly, grilled, and simply seasoned.

Then some seafood. Just-cooked shrimp, their sweetness balanced by bitter bits of fried garlic, the warmth of toasted red chiles, and a splash of lemon juice.

A plate of summer vegetables blistered in butter with seared scallops and salmon belly is large enough for two.

Now, some fried vegetables for richness. First, insanely crispy maitake mushrooms, their nutty flavor enhanced by a sprinkling of sesame seeds in the tempura batter.

Second, panko-crusted fried avocado – a completely over-the-top dish saved by the piquancy of freshly grated Nagano wasabi.

For something lighter, a gingery wonton soup garnished with plenty of julienned leek and sliced scallions, is a good choice.

Finally, the pièce de résistance, and my absolute favorite dish at Sushi Ten: cubes of chilled silken tofu, quartered cherry tomatoes, wedges of fried eggplant, and mizuna in a spicy vinegar sauce laced with sesame oil, the whole thing crowned with a mess of chopped scallions and katsuobushi (bonito flakes). I could eat this every night and never become bored of its sharp flavors and wonderful marriage of textures.

Even if the food at Sushi Ten weren’t great, I’d probably still return. Why?  Well, how could you not love a place run by people as friendly as these folks?

A huge thank you to the Fujisawa family for your endless hospitality, for allowing me to snap your photo, and of course for the all the wonderful meals. We’ll be back soon!

Sushi Ten (すし典)

Nagano-ken, Matsumoto-shi, Chūō 1-25-3

長野県松本市中央1-25-3

Tel: 0263-32-4313  ·  www.geocities.co.jp/Foodpia-Celery/4370

For a long time, I fantasized about traveling past the sprawling metropolitan areas of Kantō and Kansai to western Japan, which I’d hoped would be less developed than the densely populated and heavily industrialized area I live in north of Tokyo. Perhaps it’s something in my Scandinavian-American blood, this incessant urge to go west and explore unseen lands. (Admittedly, the promise of new and interesting food factored into my thinking as well.) Having already seen two of Japan’s least populous prefectures, Shimane and Tottori, I decided to swing south to the Sanyō coast and travel west along the Seto Inland Sea, which some have called “the Mediterranean of Japan.”

The trip begin in Okayama, where I met a friend and hopped on a train, another train, and finally a ferry toward Naoshima, twenty minutes off the coast. An island once defined solely by its fishing industry, it is now home to some of the best contemporary art in Japan.

For a conventional art-viewing experience, one can stick to Naoshima’s three concrete-walled museums.

However, we also found plenty of outdoor visual delights scattered across the island. Some are intentional…

… while others are more accidental.

The splashy colors and found objects decorating the island’s punnily named bathhouse were also a happy discovery at the end of a long, sweltering day. More interesting, however, was what waited inside: a giant stuffed elephant, painted glass ceilings, and a collage of vintage magazine clippings on the bath’s floor made for an out of the ordinary cleansing experience. (Of course, photography inside the bathing room was prohibited, but this poster gives you a pretty good idea of what to expect, should you make the trip.)

Naoshima’s real draw for me was the Art House Projects. Scattered about the village of Honmura, these renovated and repurposed houses are beautiful examples of the subtlety and craftsmanship of traditional Japanese architecture.

Two of the seven projects are in fact not houses but rather quasi-religious structures. One, Minamidera, offers a mind-bending visual trick, while the other, Go’o Shrine, presents two faces.

Public:

And private. (You’ll just have to go to see what I mean.)

Inside the oddly unsettling Kadoya, a dark pool of water blinks with LCD displays counting from one to nine and back again, all at different speeds, competing in some desperate race to a nonexistent end. We sat in the cool, dim room for what seemed like ages mesmerized by the firefly-like display, delaying our reentry into the midday heat.

Luckily, the island’s numerous cafes offered a welcome respite from the blazing sun…

…but after two days we were more or less exhausted, albeit thrilled by the experience. Under low clouds and a faint drizzle, we parted ways in Okayama, whence I headed further west to the somewhat gloomy port town of Kasaoka.

My day immediately brightened after a lunch of hiyashi bukkake udon (cold noodles in a dashi-based sauce) at a small shop specializing in sanuki udon, a famed variety from Shikoku’s Kagawa prefecture. This particular type of noodle is known throughout Japan for its thickness and delightfully chewy texture. True to form, these handmade noodles were springy, smooth, and slippery, with a good deal of heft and bite. Better yet, I watched as the owner prepared the meal before my eyes: gently lifting the floured, hand-cut noodles from a wooden tray into a basket to boil, drawing a knife through the smooth, shocking pink exterior of the kamaboko (fish cake), mincing pencil thin green onions, and carefully arranging toppings around the crown jewel: a raw quail egg nestled in a bed of grated daikon. Needless to say, I didn’t leave hungry.

(If you ever find yourself hungry in Kasaoka, take a left as you leave the station and walk along the sidewalk until you reach a three story building. Walk down the short staircase and you’ll find the shop, Kamofuku (かも福), on your left. Make sure you buy a ticket from the vending machine before sitting down at the counter! This particular bowl will set you back a mere 450 yen.)

Having slurped up my noodles, I quickly grabbed some provisions at a nearby grocery store and hopped another ferry, this time to Shiraishijima (Shiraishi Island). I had discovered this little island thanks to Okayama prefecture’s International Villa program, which aims to introduce foreigners to an area usually bypassed on the standard tourist circuit. While the word “villa” may conjure up images of sun-soaked luxury in the Italian countryside, don’t be fooled: these villas are not palaces, but they do offer comfortable accommodation and a friendly communal atmosphere at a good price.

The pictures I’d seen of Shiraishijima had primed me for hours of swimming and kayaking in the warm, calm waters of the Inland Sea. Unfortunately, the weather did not cooperate, and the scene from the island’s beach was a bit unsettling.

But an invigorating short hike the next morning helped put things in perspective.

After clambering back down, I hopped on one of the villa’s well-used bicycles to explore the island’s back roads. Soon, I was pedaling past farmhouses, coasting down steep hills with squealing brakes,  rushing beneath a thick canopy of trees alive with the calls of cicadas and birds, and swerving to avoid running over crabs scuttling across the road. As I circled back toward the beach, passing abandoned cars rusted by the salty sea air, I came across a haphazard scene of quarried rocks and used tires. A perfectly fitting industry for a place whose name simply means “white stone island.”

As the tiny passenger boat pulled away from the dock, I bid adieu to this strange little slice of Japan and began contemplating my next adventure. For this leg, I would bicycle seventy kilometers along the Shimanami Kaidō, a series of bridges and scenic highways that join Honshū (Japan’s largest island) and Shikoku (its smallest). When I stepped off the train in Onomichi , however, a light rain was beginning to fall. As I waited for the small ferry that would take me to the first island, Mukaijima, the drizzle lifted slightly, only to begin again as I disembarked. So began a rather cloudy but wonderful journey past farmland, shipyards, palm-lined beaches, endless citrus groves, and quite a few udon shops.

Although the trip could easily be completed in one day, I chose stop about halfway in the town of Setoda on the island of Ikuchijima. Before dinner, I soaked my aching muscles in scalding water at the hostel’s small bathhouse, which had been built by the owner. The food at the hostel, while nothing to write home about, was simple, homemade, and came with unlimited rice, which counted for a lot after a long afternoon of biking. (Not pictured here: the half liter bottle of beer I shared with my table mate, who was traveling east from Kyūshū on a Seishun 18 ticket.)

The second day began inauspiciously with pouring rain, which unfortunately fell relentlessly for the rest of the journey. Ill-prepared and lacking a rain jacket, I was soaked through after the first ten minutes of riding. Forty kilometers later, though, it didn’t matter. Before embarking on the sixth and final bridge, I stopped for some hot tea and a photo op.

Imabari, my destination on Shikoku, seemed to be suffering from the same affliction plaguing so many other regional Japanese cities: a mass exodus of youth. I was thankful to have my camera back, though, and killed some time wandering around before hopping on the bus to Hiroshima.

Retracing my bicycle route by bus, I was shocked by how quickly the scenery flew past the windows, and by how much one misses when traveling by vehicle. As the bus moved further west, the rain lightened and the clouds began to break. By the time we pulled into Hiroshima in the early evening, traces of golden light washed over the lush mountains surrounding the city.

No visit to Hiroshima would be complete without okonomiyaki, the as-you-like-it pancake of seafood, meat, and cabbage. That night, I took a seat at a counter and watched in awe as lightning-quick chefs layered squid, shrimp, and pork atop a base of curly Chinese-style noodles and green cabbage. The whole thing was topped with a thin omelet, brushed with sweet sauce, and finally showered with green onions, sesame seeds, and aonori. I ate the pancake straight off the griddle, watching in awe as the chefs worked their magic.

The next day, I took off for some requisite sightseeing…

…and enjoyed yet another lunch of chilled udon, plus freshwater eel over rice and roasted green tea…

…followed by shiratama zenzai (chilled red bean soup with chewy rice flour orbs), a classic Japanese summer dessert.

But, as everyone knows, a trip to Hiroshima is not about the food. As an American living in Japan, it seemed unconscionable to leave the country without having first seen Hiroshima. My motivations were personal, too: as a student of history and an alumna of the university that helped make the atomic bomb reality, I wanted to confront this awful part of history, to try to understand an event that, while unthinkable, could very well be repeated. Needless to say, visiting the memorials with March’s disaster still fresh in my memory was a particularly poignant and difficult experience.

This building, the so-called Genbaku (atomic bomb) Dome, was formerly known as the Hiroshima Prefectural Industrial Promotion Hall. It is one of the few structures that remain from that August day sixty-six years ago.

At the Children’s Peace Monument, paper cranes donated from across Japan and the world are displayed in glass cases. (The cranes are a reference to Sadako Sasaki, a young survivor of the bomb who subsequently died of leukemia. Before her death, she folded hundreds of paper cranes, with the hope that doing so so would cure her of her illness.)

Chains of paper cranes, which can be found all across the Peace Memorial Park, are continuously replaced with donations from around the world.

I spent hours at the Peace Memorial Museum, absorbing the many stories of those who were alive on August 6, 1945. Artifacts from that day – torn school uniforms, a watch stopped at precisely 8:15, carbonized food inside a warped metal lunch box – were displayed alongside plaques describing their former owners. Of course, the stories are far too numerous to recount here, nor would my words be able to do them justice. It is clear, however, that merely remembering is not enough; these stories must be carried into the future, alive, where they can be acted upon, not put to rest. There’s no better time to begin that process than today.

We can start here:

Stories from Hibakusha (atomic bomb survivors)

Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum

NHK Peace Archives

MIT Visualizing Cultures: Ground Zero 1945

The University of Chicago library: The Chain Reaction

Readers, friends: how do you see your role in making history present?

As of today, Shichimi has a new look — an autumn makeover, if you will.

Why?  I was frustrated with the old format. It was difficult to read and didn’t showcase photos particularly well. Hopefully, the new layout will make browsing and reading much easier on the eyes.

Please let me know what you think, and enjoy!

PS: I have many, many ideas for posts brewing at the moment. The only difficulty will be choosing which one to write about. Stay tuned…

For the past few weeks, I’ve had an uncharacteristically low appetite. Some part of this is no doubt due to Japan’s notorious natsubate (summer fatigue), but I suspect it’s also because I know my time in Japan will soon come to an end. I’ve been here nearly two years now, a short time by most people’s standards, though it feels like an eternity. It has been an eternity, in some ways, considering all I’ve seen, learned, and discovered. Friendships have been made, while others have sadly faded. I’ve changed, too, in ways that may be difficult to comprehend for some of my friends and family back home. Some might wonder why I can’t accept a compliment without immediately waving it off, and others may find my habit of constantly nodding and bowing in conversation bit peculiar. To be sure, these mannerisms will fade with time, but there will be a rough period while I transition to life back in the States.

That’s still a few months away though. For now, I’m doing my best to soak up the remaining Japanese summer, and continuing to cook and eat this cuisine I have grown to love so much. In fact, summer is still very much with us here, much to my delight. Tomatoes, green beans, eggplants, sweet and hot peppers, edamame, cucumbers, peaches, melons, and plums are still in abundance, though some welcome newcomers — Asian pears, figs, baby kabocha squash, and tiny sweet potatoes — have also begun appear at the market.

However, one summer vegetable I rarely ate before coming to Japan is okra. Unlike in the States, where okra is usually stewed or fried into submission, here it is most often eaten raw, the better to appreciate its delightfully neba neba (sticky-slimy) qualities. I’ve enjoyed it atop cold soba alongside similarly slippery nameko mushrooms and tossed into crisp, lemony salads for a hint of textural contrast, among other preparations. So when I saw this pretty red variety at a grocery store in Matsumoto (grown in the city, to boot), I immediately snatched up a bag. What to do with it though?

The okra languished in the refrigerator for several days as I pondered this question. On one particularly sluggish day, when the midday air was thick with humidity and summer languor, the idea of eating lunch seemed impossible. Remembering that refreshing, slippery okra-topped bowl of soba, I embarked on an easy lunch plan that I hoped would revive my nearly non-existent appetite: chilled sōmen noodles topped with okra and bracing garnishes. To begin, I thinly sliced the pods to highlight their pale green interior, which contrasted beautifully with the fuzzy, jewel-toned skin.

Next, I sliced d some myōga (previously introduced here), cutting the delicate bulbs lengthwise first, then into feathery slivers.

The resulting piles of vegetables were beautiful, but there was a certain monochrome quality to them. To remedy this, I rescued some emerald-green shiso from the desert-like conditions on the veranda.

Cut into chiffonade, it contributed the requisite visual and textural contrast to the other vegetables.

Finally, I boiled a small pot of water for the sōmen, which took all of two minutes to cook.

To prevent them from sticking together, I immediately drained the noodles, rinsed them thoroughly, and chilled them in ice water. All that remained was to dilute some chilled, bottled mentsuyu (noodle dipping sauce) with cold water, shake the water from the noodles, and pile everything on a plate. (As usual, I recommend you make your own sauce, as the commercial varieties are usually far too sweet and loaded with unnecessary ingredients. However, the bottled stuff can certainly work in a pinch.)

Slurping up the thin, ethereal noodles, I finally regained my appetite and remembered why summer in Japan is something to be thankful for. Here was a meal, visually and texturally rich, composed of nothing more than incredibly fresh ingredients paired with flavorful condiments. It seemed almost silly, eating something so simple, yet it somehow managed to sustain, to console my weary palate and mind. And although very little effort on my part had been required, I partook of the plate otherwise, remembering that it would not have been possible without abundant water, warm days, rich soils, and the labor of many. Then again, this is how we begin all meals in Japan, with a single word, itadakimasu - I will humbly receive.

A few food notes:

*If you’re not a fan of okra (and/or don’t have access to shiso and myōga), you could of course vary the toppings to your liking — julienned cucumber, shaved radishes, halved tiny tomatoes, grated fresh ginger, wasabi, basil, mint, kizami nori, thinly sliced scallions, and even peppery greens like arugula and watercress would all be delicious here. The idea is to have a contrast between textures and colors, and to include at least one or two bracing or invigorating flavors.

*Another tasty variation would be to use this sesame-miso dipping sauce, from the Japanese Food Report.

When you think of Japan, what are the first things that come to mind?  Politeness, sushi, Tokyo, temples, cleanliness, Mt. Fuji — yes, all accurate. But what about delicious street food, throngs of revelers, and costumed people singing and dancing in the streets for hours?  Not your image of Japan?  Let me explain…

It’s true that life in Japan is quite contained, both physically (in offices, trains, and tiny apartments) and psychologically (in a fairly rigid set of customs and hierarchies). In my experience, most raucousness occurs in the guise of office parties or gatherings at karaoke bars and smoky izakayas.

However, this all changes when the weather warms. Summer in Japan is the season of matsuri, or festivals. These can take many forms, from elaborate processions of portable shrines to gorgeous fireworks displays and taiko drumming performances. Sometimes, mountainsides are set on fire, as in Kyoto’s famous Gozan no Okuribi, and boats are hauled over long distances by festival participants, as in Suwa’s amazing O-fune (boat) matsuri. Japanese festivals are lively, ebullient, and often awe-inspiring events. As it happens, they’re also great places to eat.

Last weekend, Steven and I were able to attend Matsumoto’s largest festival, Matsumoto Bon Bon. (“Bon” here refers to a type of dance known as bon odori.) Several days in advance of the festival, the town was already decked out with the event’s characteristic pink and white lanterns.

When the time came for the festival, every group imaginable turned out to do the Bon Bon…

…even the town’s youngest citizens.

As the evening progressed, the smells of smoke and grease from the food stalls lining the streets lured us away from the dancing. After all, what is a Japanese festival without Japanese street food?

We first sampled takoyaki, octopus-stuffed batter griddled in spherical molds and topped with sweet brown sauce and mayonnaise. Like Danish aebleskiver in form, though of course vastly different in taste, these doughy, chewy treats are a popular street food throughout Japan. Unfortunately, the ones we sampled from this stand were a bit bland and undercooked. Still, it wouldn’t have been a festival without them.

Moving along, we bypassed the yakiton (grilled pork) stand, despite its appealing signage.

Instead, we made a beeline for the nearest yakisoba stand, where a young man was tossing thin, wavy noodles with cabbage, pork, and seasoning sauce at lightning speed. We devoured a chewy, slightly crisp pile of the stuff almost as quickly.

What would a festival be without one of these?  Yes, even the ubiquitous doner kebab has made its way to Japan. We tried one, mostly for kicks, and because we were intrigued by the quirkily advertised “Mexican flavor” spicy sauce. Spicy it was not, nor did it evoke the taste of Mexican cuisine, but the meat was appropriately and satisfyingly greasy.

For dessert, a choice awaited: kakigōri (finely shaved ice with flavored syrup)…

…or crêpes?  In this case, the choice was easy — we simply couldn’t say no to freshly made crêpes with fillings like matcha cream, yogurt, and sweet red beans. While a far cry from the delicate crêpes one might find in France, the Japanese versions we sampled stood up well to their rich fillings.

Needless to say, the highlight of the night was not the food but the festival itself. How could it not be? Matsumoto, usually subdued, was positively overcome with an infectious energy as the parade wound its way through downtown. Cheesy though it may seem, these festivals help Japanese towns retain their sense of identity and form a living link the past. They’re a sort of social glue, reminding residents that they’re part of something larger and share a common purpose. At these events, the goal may be to have fun, but the result is a lasting sense of unity and camaraderie. Witnessing such an outpouring of civic pride, I couldn’t help but sing and dance along myself.

When was the last time you had this much fun in your city’s streets?  Let me know in the comments!

Steven and I dropped in at Chez Momo this weekend for a bite of breakfast. We don’t do this often, but we should. After all, six hundred yen is a small price to pay for scones this fluffy, coffee this rich. And then, of course, there’s the jam.

(Top: hot coffee, waffle, plum-banana confiture. Bottom: iced coffee, scones, blackcurrant-rhubarb confiture.)

To my delight, the shelves were stocked with jams in new, summery flavors, including strawberry-rhubarb, raspberry-mikan, and plum-orange.

I couldn’t resist adding another jar to my pantry, but I also picked up two little gifts for a fellow-rhubarb lover whose birthday is today. (Well, yesterday in Japan. In any case, happy birthday, Dad!)

The decor had been revamped a little as well.

And some old pieces that I hadn’t noticed before caught my eye this time. (That’s the character for peach, momo in Japanese.)

Anyway, enough about jam (for now, at least!)

If you haven’t already, be sure to check out Maita-san’s blog on the Chez Momo site. Even if you can’t read Japanese, you can check out his great photos.

http://chezmomo.jp/logs

Next up: Japanese street food at the 37th annual Matsumoto Bon Bon festival!