Untangling My Chopsticks (30 page)

Makes 4 servings

In Japan this savory custard is considered a soup and thus is served with a small spoon. It makes a lovely light appetizer that you can serve warm in the winter months and cold in the summer months.

• 1 cup dashi (
  page 48
  )
  

• 2½ teaspoons soy sauce
  

• 1 teaspoon mirin
  

• ½ teaspoon coarse salt
  

• 4 shiitake mushroom caps, scored on top
  

• One 4-ounce boneless, skinless chicken breast, cut into 8 pieces
  

• 8 medium shrimp, peeled and deveined
  

• 1 tablespoon sake
  

• 2 large eggs
  

• 8 whole water chestnuts, each cut in half
  

• 4 sprigs mitsuba (Japanese wild chervil)
  

1. Bring the dashi, 1½ teaspoons of the soy sauce, the mirin, and salt to a boil in a medium saucepan. Add the mushroom caps and simmer for 2 minutes. Remove the caps with a slotted spoon and let drain on a double layer of paper towels. Let the dashi mixture cool completely.
   

2. Place the chicken and shrimp in a small bowl. Add the sake and remaining 1 teaspoon soy sauce. Toss to mix.
   

3. Lightly whisk the eggs until blended, but not too foamy, in a large bowl. Add the cooled dashi mixture and whisk to combine. Pour the custard through a fine sieve to remove any bubbles.
   

4. Lay out four chawan-mushi containers or custard cups. Place 2 pieces of chicken, 1 shrimp, and 4 water chestnut halves in each cup. Ladle the dashi custard mixture over the ingredients. Place the remaining shrimp on the surface of each cup, along with the shiitake mushroom cap, scored side up.
   

5. Place the cups in a bamboo steamer over boiling water. Wrap the steamer cover in a clean tea towel (to prevent condensation from dripping onto the custards) and place it over the steamer. Steam the custards over low heat for 8 minutes. Place the mitsuba sprig over the tops of the custards and continue cooking for 2 to 3 more minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the center of a custard comes out clean. Let the chawanmushi cool for a few minutes before serving warm with a little spoon. Alternatively, let the custards cool completely and chill in the refrigerator until ready to serve.
   

Makes 4 servings

18.

n a matter of days, I had more or less settled back into my solitary existence in Kyoto. Although I missed John, I had soon forgotten the pleasures of a marble-tiled shower, maid service, and coffee in bed. I had also happily adapted to the calm serenity of Japan, which after the corrugated chaos of Hong Kong and China proved extraordinarily appealing.

The week of my return, I applied for a position as a “Native-speaking English Instructor” at the Global Celebrity Speechcraft office in Kyoto.

“The name of the company means nothing,” admitted the gentleman who interviewed me. “But it's catchy, no?” I had to agree with him. It was one of the reasons why I had answered the ad in the newspaper.

To my delight and later dismay, I was hired on the spot. I had beaten out several other candidates for the privilege of teaching conversational English to the soon-to-be members of this English conversation club. A rather generous salary was negotiated. Hands were shaken with the company president in lieu of a contract. But when I thumbed through the latest issue of the
Kansai Time Out,
instead of being listed as the Global Celebrity Speechcraft office's new “English Instructor,” I had been crowned their “Lounge Lady.”

My English conversation “salon” ran from 6:00 to 9:00 every Wednesday and Friday night. Club members would drop by at their convenience and join the conversation in session. I was told (and paid), however, to begin work at 5:00.

This was worrying, since it meant I would be alone with my boss, Mr. Niwa. He was an extremely hyper man in his early thirties with mossy teeth, pockmarked skin, and a thick shock of greasy black hair that he would constantly flick out of his eyes with a fast jerk of his head. He also had a bizarre habit of jogging around the room—to let club members in, fetch photographs from his desk, or hurry to the back office to grab pens, pieces of paper, or whatever else caught his fancy.

Mr. Niwa never stated what I was expected to do during that hour. Nor did I ask. I had lived in Japan long enough to know such a question had no real answer. So I simply showed up and waited to see how the hour would unfold.

Usually, Mr. Niwa and I ended up chatting, which, frankly, was like giving an English lesson. Mr. Niwa spoke rapid, poor English and no two thoughts ever connected. But what did he care? I was a captive audience, who was being paid to laugh hard at his jokes and interject “wow!” and “really!” as he shared with me his
feats, including climbing mountains, having his picture snapped with famous city officials, and master-minding the Global Celebrity Speechcraft language club.

One afternoon, after showing me his calligraphy set, he leapt out of his seat, saying he had something to give me. “Hold on,” he said, grinning, then trotted out of the room. I sat waiting, wondering if it was a package of those special fish-shaped rice crackers he regularly rhapsodized about eating as a boy.

“For you,” he said, winking, as he jogged back into the room, holding a large box wrapped in red paper with white ribbon. He placed the gift down in front of me. Then, flicking the black fringe off his shiny forehead, he sat down. Quite close. I smiled and told him he shouldn't have, and really meant it.

“I wanted to,” he said, drawing his chair closer. I carefully undid the ribbon and wound it around my hand in a crisp efficient manner. Then, in a totally uncharacteristic fashion, I tore off the paper, hoping to shock and maybe revolt him. Instead, he looked aroused. I placed the shiny silver box in my lap and lifted off the cover. A thick layer of tissue neatly concealed his gift. His right foot was jackhammering the rug.

“What could this be?” I asked, peeling away the tissue. “Why, it's a sweater!” I stared at the vixen-red angora pullover. “How beautiful,” I said, trying to hide my astonishment.

“Just your color,” he murmured.

“How kind of you.” I smiled.

“Try it on,” he urged.

“No, no, no. I'll try it on at home.” I glanced at my watch. It was 5:45.

“Oh, come on. I want to see Victoria-san in it.” He gave me a naughty grin. Not wanting to offend him, I pinned the sweater up against my shoulders. It was huge.

“Perfect,” I said, putting it down. “Thank you.”

There was a knock. A student had arrived. Mr. Niwa cantered over to the door to let in a shy young woman. She apologized for arriving early.

“Oh, no, don't be sorry at all,” I said, coming to my own rescue. I escorted the woman to the classroom and began asking her about her day, leaving Mr. Niwa to fold up the sweater and clean up the mess.

What I didn't realize was that long ago in Japan, it was customary to give gifts of clothing to those who worked for you. Lower-grade samurai would often receive a
haori
(three-quarter-length kimono-like coat that loosely tied at the chest) from their daimyo with the daimyo's crest upon it. When the samurai called upon his “boss,” he was expected to appear in the crested haori. Mr. Niwa probably hoped I would wear his sweater to work. Had I known better, I would have. I think.

19.

ver the course of the next several weeks, late spring gave way to early summer. A faint floral sweetness permeated the air from the azaleas, begonias, roses, and purple irises that now edged the sidewalks and riverbanks around Kyoto. Emerald leaves fluttered from the ginkgo trees, lime-green spears shot out of young bamboo, and dark green ivy spilled over the railings of apartment buildings. Everything looked green, smelled green, and tasted of its essence.

Such was the topic of my first May tea kaiseki class. Tea gatherings held during this time of year emphasize green refreshment in anticipation of the heat. The foods become a cooling distraction for the senses.

But instead of making a formal tea kaiseki, we made what is called a
tenshin,
a small simple meal to enjoy before thin tea and
occasionally thick tea. Tenshin originated in China and came to Japan via the Zen monasteries, where the snacks were served
after
the whipped green tea. Unlike a tea kaiseki, the food served at a tenshin (both in the monastery and in the tearoom) arrives all at once and often in a small stacked lacquer box, as opposed to appearing on trays in a succession of courses. When a tea ceremony includes a tenshin (or a similar sort of abbreviated tea kaiseki meal), the event is called a
chakai,
versus a chaji.

This all seemed quite confusing. Why have tea kaiseki and a tenshin? I asked Stephen after our teacher's lecture. What is the difference between a simple Rikyu-style tea kaiseki and a snacklike tenshin? Why don't tea masters just serve a few rice balls before the whipped green tea? Why so many names, rules, and foods?

“You must understand there are no set rules regarding tea kaiseki or tea,” replied Stephen. “Every tea master has the freedom to do what he wants, within reason. The tea ceremony and the tea kaiseki will vary according to the season, the occasion, and the tea master's whim.”