Untangling My Chopsticks (29 page)

Since we had chosen a more modestly priced menu, however, dinner finished with pickles—eggplant slices and crisp cucumber crescents—and dessert. Sometimes lavish restaurant kaiseki meals offer fruit, followed by a sweet, such as a small slice of cake. Our dinner sort of combined the two. On a kiwi-green plate sat a ball of what I can only describe as “chewy” lemon sherbet. Perhaps it had been blended with mochi? Then there were two large grapes, the tops of which had been scored like a cross and pulled back at the corners. “Oh, I'm stuffed, I couldn't possibly finish these,” snickered John, pointing to the tiny purple orbs. For a man known to down thirty or more pieces of sushi in one sitting, this meal had been “elegantly spare,” bordering on ridiculous.

“I'm still hungry,” he said, back out on the street, not realizing that visual satiation was all part of the feast. Granted, I am almost half his size, but to me, any more food would have left us suffering. I tried to explain how these small offerings had been majestic, opulent, and extravagant in their own way. I felt as though I had visited a museum, heard a fascinating lecture, opened several gorgeously wrapped gifts, and consumed the essence of spring in Kyoto, all while sitting at a striking red lacquer counter in the heart of the geisha district with my best friend. John nodded, then suggested we look for a bar.

Much more to his liking was dinner at a local
robatayaki,
which I took him to several days after our visit to Flowered Comb.

In traditional Japanese homes, the
robata
is the large square sunken fire pit in the middle of a tatami room. Families used to cook in these pits, which also heated their homes, since central heating did not exist. As a concession to modern times, people still dangle their legs in the fire pit, only instead of drawing on spent coals for heat, they warm themselves from a hot bulb encased in a wire net hanging from the underside of a special table, usually draped with a thick blanket.

Since
yaki
means “to grill,” a robatayaki is a sort of Japanese tapas bar where you gather around the “fire pit,” or grill in the center of the restaurant to drink and gorge on finger-foods prepared with no nod to Zen minimalism. The atmosphere is smoky and robustious.

The evening began with two huge Kirin beers and a dish of chicken sashimi. (Is there even a Japanese word for salmonella?) Served in smooth pink slabs, oddly enough the raw chicken tasted like fish. More of a textural than taste experience, we found it frighteningly easy to eat. After that, there was no stopping us. Off the grill came smoky chicken-scallion skewers; grilled baby squid; charred pork-wrapped asparagus rolls; and rounds of flame-licked lotus root. We tucked into flinty cooked spinach doused with rich sesame cream; nibbled on edamame; and sucked down cold custardy tofu splashed with soy and topped with shredded nori and scallions. Then we ordered a borderline revolting, yet popular Japanese snack: grilled sparrow heads. These tiny crunchy craniums were totally bald and burnished with a Japanese “barbecue sauce” of soy, sugar, sake, and mirin. As long as we closed our eyes, they were delicious.

And then we were full. We paid the bill and stumbled home via the sento. While I scrubbed off the accumulated oil and soot
from our down-home country dinner, John fought off sleep on a bench outside. With beer still on our breaths, we fell into my futon.

The next morning I whisked John off to a modestly priced
onsen
(hot springs resort) in a small fishing village on the Kii Peninsula west of Kyoto. He looked pleased but apprehensive. “Is it going to be like the public bath?”

“No, no,” I assured him, “
total
luxury.”

Because of Japan's volcanic nature, there are over two thousand natural hot springs dotted throughout the country, along with numerous man-made ones. Both types offer the same therapeutic release from the stresses of work, family, or the fast pace of a city.

For the Japanese, communal bathing combines the Shinto element of purification with the social and physical pleasures of immersing oneself in a soothing pool of water with friends. The type of onsen you choose depends upon your personal preference and budget: they can be as small as a Jacuzzi, or as big as a pond; made of teak wood, or fabricated from stone; filled with water as clear as vodka, or as cloudy as milk; feel lobster-pot-hot, or pleasantly warm; and smell fresh as rain, or sulfurously foul.

Although many onsen are situated outside in gorgeous natural settings—in the mountains, by a river, or in rocky caves by the sea—some lie indoors with fanciful themes. At the Arita Kanko Hotel in the western area of Honshu, for example, you can slip into a hot tub located inside a cable car that chugs up a mountain to give you a breathtaking view of the coastline—in the buff.

The type of onsen that John and I were headed toward ad
vertised seaside delight. Meaning: we would spend the night in a traditional Japanese inn and sample local delicacies caught from the cold salty waters of the Kii Peninsula. I could just imagine us in a gorgeous outdoor bath pushing a floating tray of sake back and forth to one another, a scene reproduced in so many resort brochures.

The train ride was promising. After gliding by a lovely stretch of pine-studded mountains, we dipped down to the Japanese coast and sped past numerous quaint port towns. The sun shone bright and only a few wispy clouds drifted across the pale blue sky. We could practically feel the salt spray on our cheeks.

Then we arrived at our destination. To our dismay and ultimate amusement, we had arrived at the Jersey Shore of Japan. From the window of our small tatami room our “ocean view” included an industrial sewage facility. A coin-operated TV glared at us from the corner of the room, next to a coin-operated safe. The final touch was the dirty Band-Aid near the bathroom. We immediately decided to stay only one night instead of the intended two.

A walk around the fishing village found us holding our noses as we passed leathery charcoal triangles of drying shark fins strung up on clear fishing reel. In an attempt to escape the stench, we wandered into a nearby hotel, which had just begun the formal process of welcoming a busload of Japanese tourists. Before we knew it, we had been swept down a corridor of Japanese well-wishers, only to have our picture taken by the tour's photographer.

Back at the inn, we decided to venture into the waters. After all, that was one of the reasons why we had traveled to the Kii Peninsula. As is typical with most onsen, the baths are segregated by sex. Clad in nothing but our bathing suits and casual cotton kimonos, we gingerly tiptoed down the questionably clean tile
stairs and into our separate soaking pools. Mine was empty. And for good reason. The rock grotto–like pool bubbled up a sulfurous gas, as if it had just gobbled down a barrel of azuki beans. The tan rocks wore a slick coat of greenish algae and the windows were streaked with a mysterious scum. I was in and out in less than ten minutes, ready to hit the shower and wash off the slime.

Not surprisingly, John was already in the shower when I burst into our room. We could only imagine what lay in store for dinner.

To our surprise and delight, dinner was stupendous. Served in our room at the low polished wood table, it exuded a freshness and artistry we had not seen since leaving Kyoto. The sashimi— sea bream, squid, and skipjack—tasted as clean as a freshly sliced apple. Rusty-red miso soup had a meaty fortifying flavor enhanced with cubes of tofu and slithery ribbons of seaweed. The tempura, served in a basket of woven bamboo, shattered to pieces like a well-made croissant. Hiding inside the golden shell was a slice of Japanese pumpkin, a chunk of tender white fish, an okra pod, a shiitake mushroom cap, and a zingy shiso leaf.

Pale yellow
chawan-mushi
also appeared in a lidded glass custard cup. With a tiny wooden spoon we scooped up the ethereal egg and dashi custard cradling chunks of shrimp, sweet lily buds, and waxy-green ginkgo nuts.

In a black lacquer bowl came a superb seafood consommé, along with a knuckle of white fish, tuft of spinach, mushroom cap, and a tiny yellow diamond of yuzu zest. A small lacquer bucket held several servings of sticky white rice to eat with crunchy radish pickles and shredded pressed cabbage. A small wedge of honeydew melon concluded the meal.

After taking away our dinner dishes and trays, a maid came in to make up our futons, which she pushed together with good
intentions. A little too squeamish about our surroundings to do anything more than read, we fell asleep at 7:30, thus bringing a rapid close to what had been a most unusual day.

Our romantic getaway ended early that next morning when we hurried to catch the first train back to Kyoto. From there, we headed off to Hong Kong and China, where we spent the next eight days laying siege to our senses with an explosive array of sightseeing, walking, shopping, dancing, and eating endless amounts of oily, spicy, garlic-laced food.

Then John was gone. He had flown into my life, shared my little nest, and soared off. I had no idea when I would see him again.

Burnished brown from the soy-mirin marinade, these sweet and savory chicken-scallion tidbits make a terrific hors d'oeuvre. In Japan, you can find these skewers at robatayaki, as well as yakitori restaurants and stands, casual after-work snack shacks recognizable from the red lanterns out front and tantalizing clouds of smoke billowing off the grill.

• 30 wooden skewers, soaked in water for at least 30 minutes
  

• before using 10 scallions, trimmed and cut into six 1-inch batons 1 pound boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cut into 30 bite-size
  

• pieces
  

• ¼ cup soy sauce
  

• ¼ cup dashi (
  page 48
  )
  

½ cup mirin

2 tablespoons sugar

Sansho powder for sprinkling

1. Thread each skewer with one piece of scallion (speared crosswise), one piece of chicken (speared crosswise), and one more piece of scallion. Wrap the “handle” portion of each skewer with foil. Continue threading the remaining skewers in this order. (The skewers may be prepared up until this point and stored in the refrigerator, covered, for up to 6 hours.)
   

2. Combine the soy sauce, dashi, mirin, and sugar in a small saucepan. Bring the liquid to a boil, reduce the heat to low, and simmer until it has reduced to ½ cup, about 15 minutes. Transfer this “barbecue sauce” to a small wide-mouth jar and let cool.
   

3. When ready to cook, place the skewers on a grill or broiler rack. Grill or broil the skewers for approximately 30 seconds on each side, making sure to watch them carefully to prevent the skewer tips from burning. Dip the skewers in the barbecue sauce, letting the excess drip back into the jar. Grill or broil on one side for 30 seconds, then dip the skewers into the jar of barbecue sauce again, and grill or broil on the other side for 30 seconds, or until the meat is juicy and just cooked through. Slip off the foil handles, arrange the skewers on a platter (like the spokes of a wheel), and sprinkle with the sansho. Serve warm.
   

Makes 30 skewers

Custardy cold tofu makes a wonderfully restorative dish when the weather turns warm. It is served in Japanese taverns and robatayaki, as well as at home, usually along with a variety of other dishes. Fresh tofu, sold in most Japanese markets, tastes much creamier than commercially made versions and is worth seeking out. Splurge on good soy sauce, which varies in quality and price. The inexpensive versions tend to taste flat and quite salty. The pricier ones have a rounder, more full-bodied flavor that in a dish like this you can truly appreciate.

• 1-pound block silken tofu, chilled
  

• 1 teaspoon grated fresh ginger
  

• 1 scallion, trimmed and thinly sliced
  

• 8 teaspoons soy sauce
  

• 2 tablespoons shredded nori (available in packages)
  

Drain the tofu and gently rinse under cold water. Cut the block into four equal pieces. Place each piece of tofu in the center of a shallow bowl or on a small plate. For each serving, place ¼ teaspoon of grated ginger in the center of the tofu. Sprinkle with scallions and drizzle with 2 teaspoons of the soy sauce. Garnish with a pinch of shredded nori.