The scene is like something from Agatha Christie’s Poirot novels: In the golden glow of morning, a crowd gathers to board the huffing, gleaming train. Porters in starched white livery lead travelers to sleeping chambers outfitted with carved wood furniture and goose-down quilts. Then, with everyone snug in their cabins, a sharp whistle blows. The coach trundles off into the vast, scenic wilderness. 

Is it 1924 or 2024? With a sudden proliferation of old-world-style rail itineraries, your guess is as good as ours. Slow travel is back, and by rail, you can skip the usual headaches of traffic and crowds in exchange for sweeping vistas, well-kept accommodations, and—increasingly—exceptional cuisine with a palpable sense of place. For an escape that’s as much about the journey as it is about the destination, consider these luxe locomotives.

Eastern & Oriental Express Wild Malaysia

3 nights • Key sights: Singapore, Taman Negara National Park, Penang 

Departing from Singapore, this Belmond train is a blast from the past with wood-paneled carriages, gilded design accents, and a dining car with crisp tablecloths and glimmering crystal. As you ride through the misty jungle, you’ll pause at a national park (to learn about endangered Malayan tigers) and savor dishes that wink to the locations en route, such as Penang duck curry or beef cheeks with Sarawak peppercorns. 

Napa Valley Wine Train Legacy Experience

6 hours • Key sights: Charles Krug Winery, V. Sattui Winery

On this popular route, wine tasting in an open-air carriage is followed by a four-course menu featuring California products such as Skyhill chèvre and Guittard Chocolate—all served in a 1915 Pullman dining car. Wine flights at the formidable Charles Krug and V. Sattui wineries round out the itinerary, which snakes through sun-soaked vineyards and farmland. 

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Rovos Rail African Trilogy

15 nights • Key sights: Hluhluwe-Imfolozi Park, Fish River Canyon, Kalahari Desert

There may be no better way to absorb the varied scenery of southern Africa than this leisurely route that weaves from the eastern coast of South Africa up to Namibia. Desert drives, safaris, and boma dinners—think ostrich filet, grilled kingklip, and koeksisters (honeyed fried dough) served alfresco at candlelit tables—are all part of the experience.

La Dolce Vita Orient Express

2 nights • Key sights: Rome, Matera, Palena

The UNESCO-preserved cave dwellings of Matera, the star stop on this train, make you feel like you’re in a history documentary (just with way more gelato). On-board culinary offerings include everything from Sicilian brioche at breakfast to a lively aperitivo in the lounge (where you can try your hand at the Italian game of scopa). A stop-off in Palena allows for more enchanting sightseeing and castle-hopping.

Palace On Wheels – The Royal Train Journey

7 nights • Key sights: Delhi, Udaipur, Agra

Rajasthan, the “Land of Kings,” boasts such a wealth of monuments and landscapes that it’s best taken in by train. Sightseeing stops—say, an elephant ride in Jaipur or a boat excursion in Udaipur—complement the over-the-top train, which sparkles with colorful fabrics, Christmas lights, and royal-themed decorations. Though there are European-style dishes, more intriguing are the freshly made Indian stews, breads, and desserts, including from-scratch ice creams.

JR East Tohuku Emotion

4 hours • Key sights: Hachinohe, Sanriku Coast, Kuji

State-run rail companies and fine dining rarely go hand in hand—except when it comes to Japan’s Tohuku Emotion, which chugs along the coast of northeastern Honshu. The train makes no stops but offers views of monuments such as the Kabushima Shrine, a breeding ground for black-tailed gulls. The menu changes quarterly, which might mean sea urchin-cauliflower cream one month and smoked Aomori scallops the next.

The post 6 Life-Changing Train Trips to Take This Year appeared first on Saveur.

I can smell the narazuke fermentation room before I see it. The malty scent of vegetables mingling with bacteria is a signpost pointing toward the facility where Soshin Nishida and his family age pickled white melon. I inhale deeply, taking in the aromas, and Nishida beams. “It smells good, doesn’t it?”

Tourists flock to Nara to pose for selfies with the Japanese city’s famous free-roaming deer, but the historic prefecture is otherwise largely overlooked as a destination, eclipsed by Kyoto’s famed temples and Osaka’s glitz. Yet in the 8th century, Nara was Japan’s first permanent capital, among the easternmost stops on the ancient Silk Road, and a key entry point for edible imports. From tea drinking to persimmon cultivation, the city became a fountainhead of Japanese food culture.

Today, many of Japan’s culinary crafts are fading, replaced by machine-made shortcuts or abandoned entirely. Yet in Nara, where many of these skills have their earliest roots in the country, a handful of artisans are devoted to preserving these ancient techniques—and reimagining them for the future.

The Pickle Maker: Soshin Nishida

Brewing sake leaves behind a precious byproduct: sake lees, a white, paste-like residue with a mildly sweet and fruity taste. Not to be wasted, the ingredient is a base for countless foods in Japanese cuisine: amazake (a sweet fermented rice drink), marinades, and pickles, including a centuries-old Nara specialty, narazuke.

Soshin Nishida, who is part of the 11th generation in his family to produce the pickled white melon, often spends much of the day with his hands deep in tubs of narazuke. (He jokes that the peptide-rich sake lees, used as a cosmetic ingredient in Japan, is his secret to youthful-looking hands.) He shows me around his family-owned brand Ashibiyahonpo’s aging facility, explaining how they use sake lees and salt to season and preserve the melon, which turns savory as it ferments for at least three years, or up to five. The crunchy pickles are tangy and umami—an ideal accompaniment to porridge or sushi.

Before refrigeration, narazuke was a means of preservation. In 2018, to reimagine its potential, Nishida’s family opened the pizzeria Cervo Bianco, which offers a narazuke-topped four-cheese pizza and pickle-flavored gelato. “Narazuke can be more than just a pairing,” Nishida insists. “I don’t want future generations to forget its nutritional legacy.”

The Tea Cultivator: Junichi Uekubo

To roll his tea by hand, Junichi Uekubo spends up to eight hours a day hunched over a washi paper-lined table laden with leaves. A heater beneath the table helps dry the delicate greens, so he must keep them in constant motion, rapidly sliding his palms back and forth across the surface to prevent the tea from burning.

The resulting needles of temomicha, or hand-rolled tea, Uekubo says, are worth every bit of effort. Only a tiny fraction of the green tea produced in Japan is still hand-rolled, a process that breaks down the cells and releases the leaves’ fragrance and flavor. Uekubo’s tastes unlike any tea I’ve had before—savory, with undertones of dashi. “I use crab, herring, and oysters as fertilizer, to heighten that umami flavor,” he tells me.

As a child, Uekubo, a seventh-generation tea cultivator, was unsure whether he wanted to take over the family business, Tea Uekubo. But one whiff of its prized temomicha convinced him: “I’m the first one who gets to taste it,” he says. “That’s the best moment. I want to share those special emotions that tea can arouse.”

The Soybean Grower and The Miso Maker: Masahiro Kondo and Hiroyuki Katagami

Soybeans play a critical role in Japanese cuisine—in soy sauce, tofu, miso, and beyond—but more than 90 percent of them used in Japan are grown elsewhere. In recent decades, the nation’s soybean cultivation has been steadily declining, due to limited land, unfavorable weather, aging farmers, and the comparative reliability of imported North American-grown beans.

The O-deppo variety, once prominent in Nara, is now nearly extinct. When tofu maker and Nara native Masahiro Kondo heard that the breed once grew taller than the average soybean plant, with double the yield and a greater depth of flavor from its unusually high sucrose content, he decided to hunt down the heirloom seeds and revive the crop.

At first, Hiroyuki Katagami, owner of Katagami Shoyu, was one of the few local soy sauce makers willing to take a chance on the unfamiliar bean. But the resurrected legumes stood up to their long-forgotten reputation. I sample a taste of Katagami’s miso, and it is smooth and creamy, the ingredient’s characteristic salty, funky flavor punctuated by a distinct sweetness. “Soybeans used to be a pride of Nara,” says Kondo, who also uses the beans at his company Miki Tofu. “We’re slowly bringing back the concept of farm-to-table soybeans.”

The Persimmon Preserver: Kazuhiro Ishii

In Japan, if you throw away something that could still be useful, you might hear the term “mottainai.” Loosely translating to “what a waste,” it’s often uttered as a reminder to reuse and recycle.

“We are nature worshippers,” says Kazuhiro Ishii, the quiet and cerebral third-generation owner of Ishii Co., who attributes Japanese people’s deep respect for the environment to the country’s indigenous Shinto religion. That ethos of conservation was what motivated his grandfather, Isao Ishii, to develop the family brand’s first persimmon-based product in 1981. Scuffed or otherwise imperfect persimmons couldn’t be sold (“Japanese people are perfectionists,” Kazuhiro says), but they could be transformed into treats like hoshigaki (dried Hachiya persimmons) and kyoshu no kaki (dried Horenbo persimmons filled with sweet chestnut paste). The family created other products as well: a sweet-tart vinegar made from the fruit’s syrupy flesh, and a wheaty brewed tea and matcha-like powder from the dried leaves.

Persimmons, or kaki in Japanese, have been cultivated in Nara for centuries. There’s an ancient custom of writing a love note on a persimmon leaf, then releasing it into a body of water. One of the city’s famed delicacies is kakinoha-zushi, a pressed sushi made by wrapping marinated fish in the fruit’s leaves—when I unwrap one in a local shop, I feel like I’m opening a gift.

Today, Kazuhiro continues to research new ways to make the most of persimmons, like turning the skin into natural food coloring and the juice into sweetener. “I want to continue making farmers happy by buying their damaged fruit,” he tells me, “so we can keep passing on Nara’s kaki culture.”

The Soy Sauce Brewer: Osamu Yoshikawa

Balancing on a plank atop a six-foot-tall wooden barrel, sixth-generation soy sauce producer Osamu Yoshikawa churns a thick mixture of soybeans, wheat, koji mold, and saltwater. He invites me to give it a try, and I learn just how labor-intensive this job truly is. But Yoshikawa knows it’s worthwhile. The finished condiment will be full-bodied, complex, and a tad sweet: liquid umami.

Today, less than 1 percent of the soy sauce made in Japan is produced this way, aging from six months to three years in bamboo and cedar barrels called kioke. The liquid darkens and the flavor intensifies as the brew matures; microorganisms, flourishing in the wood’s crevices, create a distinct flavor exclusive to the maker. It can take two weeks to fashion a new kioke; Yoshikawa estimates only around 3,500 of the vessels still exist, most replaced by steel vats. But built with care, the barrels can last as long as 200 years; many of the ones at Inoue Honten, his bean-to-bottle soy sauce company, have been in continuous use for decades.

“Barrel-aging soy sauce is a fast-fading art,” says Yoshikawa, flanked by his two sons and daughter-in-law who will eventually take over the business. “But the taste of making it this way is unparalleled.” His younger son, Ryo Yoshikawa, grins broadly and flexes his biceps, as if to say, “We won’t let our father down.”

Recipes

Leftover Green Tea Leaf Salad

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Inarizushi (Rice-Filled Tofu Pockets)

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Miso Clam Chowder

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Amazake, Apple, and Pineapple Smoothie

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The post Meet the Makers Preserving the Past in Nara appeared first on Saveur.

If you hope to live a long life, chances are you’ve researched, or at least speculated, what makes Japan’s average life expectancy the highest in the world. Many research findings have connected Japanese longevity to certain food and drink staples, from fish to green tea. Among the hailed ingredients is a slippery, slimy one that’s beloved in Japanese culture but has yet to make its way into the hearts and minds of the global masses: natto, an all-around miraculous food.

Natto is made by steaming soybeans, then inoculating them with a microorganism known as Bacillus subtilis, explains Ann Yonetani, a microbiologist and founder of the natto company NYrture. As a result of fermentation, the soybeans develop a sticky, stringy texture and a nutty, pungent flavor, somewhat reminiscent of aged cheese.

My dad, who spent time working in Japan and speaks the language, instilled in me an early appreciation for natto. At breakfast, he’d scoop a little into my bowl of porridge, or slide a jar toward me encouragingly as I ate my scrambled eggs—often while remarking, “it’s really good for you”—before gobbling up a helping of his own. At first I merely tolerated natto’s presence in my bowl, but eventually, I missed its funky aroma whenever it wasn’t on the table.

If no one ever coaxed you to acquire a taste for natto when you were a kid, it’s not too late to acquire it now—and it turns out there are lots of good reasons to do so. It’s no secret that fermented foods are advantageous for gut health, but one way Bacillus subtilis differs from the bacteria in many other fermented items is that it has the ability to form spores. “The spores are able to survive the extremely acidic conditions of the stomach and make it through your digestive system,” explains Yonetani. These beneficial microbes can then join the community of bacteria that populate the intestines, where they contribute to a more diverse gut microbiome, which in turn supports healthier immune and digestive function.

Natto also contains more Vitamin K2 than any other known food source, notes Yonetani, explaining that the micronutrient is critical for calcium metabolism. Studies published in The Journal of Nutrition associate natto consumption with lower risk of osteoporotic fracture and bone density loss. It could support heart health, too, as eating fermented soy products like natto and miso is also linked to lower risk of death by cardiovascular disease, according to a study in The BMJ (British Medical Journal). “Really good for you” indeed.

In Japan, many people wake up to fermented soybeans. “It’s really very popular as a breakfast dish,” says Jane Matsumoto, director of culinary arts at the Japanese American Cultural & Community Center (JACCC). Perhaps that’s because natto is exceptionally filling, with more than 30 grams of protein in a single cup—something Yonetani says she especially appreciated after transitioning to a vegan lifestyle. Plus, natto is easy to prepare: simply scoop the savory ingredient right out of the jar and dollop it over rice, or stir some into a bowl of miso soup, and breakfast is served.

Those curious about natto’s health-boosting benefits can now find it in a variety of forms—from natto powder to capsules of isolated nattokinase (an enzyme found in natto that’s especially linked to cardiovascular benefits)—but there’s nothing like enjoying Japan’s gift to nutrition in all its funky, slippery glory.“Natto is an amazingly simple, two-ingredient food that produces something so unique, with marvelous flavor and texture,” says Yonetani.

In the U.S., look for natto in Japanese markets and Asian grocers, and on e-commerce retailers like Umamicart. The ingredient typically comes with little packets of karashi (Japanese mustard) and a soy sauce-based seasoning for stirring into the beans before eating, but there are myriad ways to enjoy the ingredient. “I think natto is a lot more versatile than the traditional Japanese applications,” Matsumoto notes.

Here are some different techniques for integrating natto into your next meal:

1. Enjoy natto with rice.

An easy, popular preparation I often whip up quickly for breakfast is natto gohan, which calls for dolloping the fermented beans over steamed rice, then garnishing with toppings like scallion and tsukemono (a variety of Japanese pickles). But don’t stop there. Chris Ono, the chef behind the JACCC’s restaurant concept Hansei, likes eating natto with yaki onigiri, or grilled rice balls, which have a crispy texture that contrasts delightfully with the gooey natto. “I break the onigiri open and put the natto in the middle,” he says. Ono also rolls the soybeans into maki with scallion and takuan, or pickled daikon—a sweet, crunchy addition that helps “cut the intensity” of the natto, he adds.

2. Pair natto with similarly viscous ingredients

In Japanese cuisine, natto often shows up alongside other viscous foods (Japanese language describes that sticky texture as neba neba). “I call it slime on slime,” says Matsumoto, who loves pairing natto with okra. Grated yamaimo, or mountain yam, is another terrific partner for the ingredient—the sticky combination makes a tasty topping for any rib-sticking bowl of carbs, be it noodles, rice, or porridge. Raw egg, a typical garnish for natto gohan, also makes for a satisfyingly slurpable concoction.

3. Toss natto into a stir-fry

The next time you whip up a stir-fry, try tossing in some fermented soybeans. “Think of natto as a main protein,” suggests Ono, pointing out the ingredient’s savory flavor and meaty chew. Earthy ingredients like mushrooms marry nicely with the nutty quality of natto, he says, while alliums like garlic and onion enhance its umaminess. Just be sure to add the natto at the very end of the cooking process, Yonetani advises, so you don’t apply too much heat, which could kill those friendly bacteria.

4. Complement natto with your favorite cheese

Anything you might top with cheese, you can probably consider adding some natto to it, says Yonetani, pointing out that the two are similarly pungent. She regularly mixes them in dishes like grilled-cheese sandwiches, scrambled eggs, and pasta—and swears that Parmesan cheese is an especially exquisite complement for natto (Japanese and Italian seasonings are known to be harmonious, after all). If it’s hard for you to get past the beans’ stringy quality, consider folding some into a cheesy, velvety dip. The soybeans add crunch, while their slippery texture incorporates subtly into the creaminess of the dip.

5. Add sweetness and spice

Seasonings for natto aren’t limited to karashi and soy sauce. Got some sriracha, Tabasco, salsa macha, or chile crisp on hand? I love drizzling any of these fiery condiments over top to heat things up. Ono recommends sprinkling in shichimi togarashi (a seven-spice mix that includes red chiles, sansho pepper, dried orange peel, and sesame seeds) or stirring in yuzu kosho (a fermented condiment made with chiles and yuzu) to jazz up your natto with a citrusy, spicy boost. Or, follow Yonetani’s suggestion and experiment with stirring in different salad dressings. From sweet honey mustard to tart balsamic vinaigrette, the flavor profiles you can create are endless.

Recipe: Natto Gohan

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The post There’s a Lot to Love About Natto appeared first on Saveur.

Rise & Dine is a SAVEUR column by Senior Editor Megan Zhang, an aspiring early riser who seeks to explore the culture of mornings and rituals of breakfast around the world.

When I first started trying to build a short meditation routine into my mornings, I quickly learned that it clashed with another, already entrenched, daily habit. The quick onset of a caffeine jolt from a cup of coffee, effective as it was at jump-starting my energy, interrupted the calm stillness I was attempting to embody. For a novice meditator like me, quieting the mind was a hard enough task, and it didn’t help that this erratic fidgetiness left little room for reflection.

But on a recent trip to Kyoto, I learned that meditation and caffeine have been intertwined in Japanese monastic culture for centuries—with tea at the heart of it.

To learn more about the art of mindfulness, I spent a stormy afternoon at Shunkoin Temple, a centuries-old Zen Buddhist site, one of dozens in the sprawling, pine tree-lined Myōshin-ji temple complex. Reverend Takafumi Kawakami, the head priest, greeted guests with a tea ceremony and cups of cold-brewed sencha, a cooling balm perfect for the hot, muggy weather. As we sipped, he explained that the combination of tea’s stimulating caffeine and calming L-theanine (the latter helps mitigate the excitatory effects of the former, and their union can help bolster attention and curb distraction)assists the pursuit of “mindful tranquility and self-exploration.” After we set down our empty cups, Kawakami led us through a meditation practice. Seated cross-legged on the floor in that serene temple, I felt a mild lift in energy from the sencha—and was surprised that my thoughts wandered less than usual, and that my mind refocused quickly when they did.

It was Buddhist monks who first brought tea from China to Japan around the 8th and 9th centuries and began disseminating tea culture, explained historian Robert Hellyer, author of Green with Milk and Sugar: When Japan Filled America’s Tea Cups. For centuries, it remained a scarce and precious commodity. “On imperial land and in Buddhist monasteries—those were really the only two places, at this early stage, where tea was being grown,” he noted. While tea was offered to the Buddha and the deceased during monastic ceremonies, it had another practical application for monks themselves. “It kept them clear-headed,” added historian and University of Hawai’i professor Nancy K. Stalker, explaining that monks would often turn to tea for a little invigoration ahead of their meditative and ceremonial practices.

Tea eventually spread to the societal elite, and finally to the masses. “Starting the morning with tea is, I think for many, a moment to relax and focus your thoughts for the day ahead,” said Yasunori Iwata, a chef based in Nara, a city about an hour south of Kyoto. Though tea-loving tourists tend to flock to nearby Uji, which is regarded for its matcha production, Nara, as Japan’s first permanent capital, has one of the country’s longest traditions of tea cultivation. The city also has an enduring morning tradition of not only drinking tea but eating it, too.

As Iwata watched a pot of water simmering on the stove, he explained that, according to local lore, a tea porridge called chagayu became widespread in Nara as a way to stretch leftover rice, and it eventually became a hallmark of the local cuisine. Though the dish is similar to ochazuke, a simple porridge common throughout Japan that requires pouring brewed tea over cooked rice, chagayu calls for the cook to simmer cooked rice in tea on a stovetop—a vital step that more potently perfumes the grains with tea aroma.

As the chef gently stirred the hojicha, a roasted green tea, I peered over his shoulder and breathed in the smoky warmth of the steam. There was something almost meditative about getting lost in this peaceful, repetitive motion—it invited me to notice the delicate scent of the leaves, and the soothing warmth ascending from the water. My mind emptied as I watched the grains swirling slowly in the pot. “Notice when the texture starts to change,” said Iwata, quietly summoning me from my trance as he pointed out the slight thickening of the rice. He ladled the chagayu into a small bowl with some umeboshi, or pickled plums, on the side. After several nights of restless, jet-lagged sleep, the light flavors and gentle aromatherapy were restorative. 

Though I’ve cooked and eaten countless rice porridges, none had delivered a subtle energy boost and undertow of earthy fragrance quite like chagayu. But many Nara visitors likely won’t encounter it, local tour guide Atsuo Itsuji told me, as the breakfast is usually simply prepared at home. Luckily for fans of the dish, it’s easy to recreate.

If coffee is the alarm clock that stuns the drinker awake, tea is the sunlight streaming in through the window, gently nudging one toward wakefulness. As I learned in Nara, even the process of preparing it creates space for a bit of slowness. And with a warm bowl of chagayu, we might have our meditation and eat it, too.

Recipe

Chagayu (Tea Porridge)

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The post Seeking Mindfulness in a Bowl of Japanese Tea Porridge appeared first on Saveur.

This feature was originally published in our May/June 1998 issue.

Miso, that elemental paste of fermented soybeans, was once made in most Japanese homes, both in the cities and in the countryside. Recipes and procedures were well-guarded family secrets, the process took months, and no two batches of miso would ever taste the same—due to varying proportions of salt to soybeans, the common (but not essential) addition of rice or barley, and the length of fermentation. Even the soil in which the soybeans were grown could make a difference. Miso, as a result, became a source of great family pride. “Temae miso desuga,” one would say—meaning “I don’t want to boast about my miso, but…”

Though my own family did not make miso at home, it was indispensable to us nonetheless, as it was (and still is) in all Japanese kitchens. Misoshiru, or miso soup, is served almost every day—either with rice and pickled vegetables as a complete (if frugal) meal, or on its own as the standard breakfast. I use miso as a base for all kinds of sauces and dressings, and like many people, I believe it to be essential when braising or grilling fish, especially strong-flavored mackerel. And I wouldn’t cook beef without it.

Like tofu (soybean curd), miso is high in protein. Unlike tofu, whose greatest selling point is its ability to soak up the flavor of whatever else it is cooked with, each kind of miso has its own rich, complex flavor and its own purpose—whether it be to enrich a broth or stock, to season a sauce or marinade, to work as a pickling agent or preservative, or to stand on its own, spread on vegetables or layered into casseroles. Miso is healthy and versatile and simple in composition, but its real magic comes from the fact that it has the ability to transform—even to elevate—other ingredients onto a different level altogether. That’s what puts miso at the heart of Japanese cuisine.

Unfortunately, miso can be confusing for anyone who hasn’t grown up with it. The problem is twofold: First of all, it has no Western counterpart, either in composition or versatility, so the average non-Japanese cook has no frame of reference for it. The second problem is that there are several types of miso—the three basic categories being komemiso, mugimiso, and mamemiso (rice, barley, and straight soybean miso, respectively), and each encompasses several different varieties.

Japan’s miso tradition began around the seventh century a.d. Miso seems to have evolved from both chiang, a soybean paste that Buddhist monks brought from China, and jang, a similar soybean product that Korean farmers introduced into Japan’s countryside. With the exception of a rustic farmhouse version, miso was made just for the nobility (and solely by monks) until the tenth century. Gradually, soybeans became more widely available, and the making of miso slowly spread to all levels of society. Though it had reached staple status throughout Japan by the 1300s, miso continued to be produced at home until the 18th century, when samurai families, once employed by now-disenfranchised feudal lords, founded the miso-making industry.

Today, much of the miso made in Japan comes from giant factories. According to Eddie Fujima, a consultant for Marubeni America Corporation in New York City—which exports American soybeans to Japan—some 50 of Japan’s 1,355 miso makers control 90 percent of the market. Most of these use soybeans imported either from the United States or from China. Miso connoisseurs, who are adept at detecting an inferior product, seek out small miso breweries—the kind that are painstakingly preserving old-fashioned techniques and regional miso styles.

Late last year, I took the train from Tokyo to Honjō, about 75 mils northwest of the city. From there, I caught a bus to the tiny village of Kamiizumi-mura, and specifically to Yamaki Jōzō—a miso factory that functions, at least in part, i the traditionally manner. (Yama means “mountain,” as in a mountain of soybeans or miso; ki stands for Kitani, the name of the family that owns the company; and jōzō means “brewery.”) Kazuhiko Morita, the brewery’s director, neatly attired in a starched white work jacket and white hat, greeted me with a deep bow and a smile at the brewery door. Immediately, he launched into a passionate explanation of the company’s history, informing me that it had been making miso (the three basic types as well as a few specialty styles), soy sauce, and tofu since 1902. In the 1960s, the organization had switched to using raw materials most of them grown domestically. And though the company’s philosophy had remained traditional, he added, production had become partially automated in the mid-1980s. When he stopped to take a breath, I interrupted and asked to se how miso is made. “Okay!” he agreed, and we were off.

Yamaki is a small brewery—its annual output is about 400 tons—and only one type of miso is made at a time. I turned up on the third day of akamiso (red miso, which in this case refers to a type of rice miso) production. On the first day, rice had been soaked, steamed, and then inoculated with kōjikin, a spore of mold (Aspergillus oryzae) that triggers fermentation. It had been fermenting for about 48 hours since then, producing enzymes that would later help break down the soybeans.

The first room we visited was devoted to the soybeans. We stood on a high platform along one of two gigantic steel pressure cookers. When we opened the lid, a vigorous swirl of steam filled the entire room. Once the steam, had evaporated, my guide scooped up a lovely. yellow mound of soft soybeans. “cooked beans should be cooled quickly,” he explained, as he pushed a few burtons commanding the cooker to turn and empty all 5,300 pounds of its contents onto a conveyor belt. Next, we peeked into the hot, humid rice room, where eight inches of fuzzy kōji, or inoculated rice, covered the floor. Two conveyor belts, one carrying the cooled steamed soybeans, the other transporting the kōji, come together in a third room. There, the grain and beans are mixed with sea salt and spring water, then pressed through a big machine resembling a meat mincer. Next the mixture is packed into huge cedar barrels. A plastic sheet is stretched over the top and weighted with stones to force excess liquid to the top and help create a safe, airtight environment. Then the miso is left to ferment until the summer.

In June or July, Morita-san told me, the miso is moved to another set of barrels—exposure to oxygen enhances fermentation—and allowed to develop for a few more months. In November, the miso is stirred and transferred yet again so that the light brown color will be evenly distributed. Shortly after that, Morita-san tastes the miso to determine how much longer it should be left to mature. He looks for a dark brown color and a mild flavor; if it’s too salty at this point, eh said, it is not ready. Morita-san claims to have ruined a batch of miso only three times in 20 years, but he also told me that his loyal (and picky) customers have no qualms about pointing out even the slightest changes. Yamaki’s miso is neither dosed with alcohol to stop the fermentation process nor passteurized (as many misos are). Instead, when Morita-san believes his miso to be ready, he packs it into refrigerated steel vats. This way, all its natural yeasts and lactic acids (which are believed to aid in digestion) remain active, resulting not only in a more nutritious miso, but in one more complex in flavor.

At the end of my tour, Morita-san packed me a container of one of the brewery’s specialty misos—genmai-namamiso, which is made with brown rice instead of the usual white.

A week later, after I’d written him a letter thanking him for his hospitality, he offered me an even better gift: “Would you like to make your own miso at home?” he inquired by fax. Upon receiving my enthusiastic reply, he sent me two pounds of kōji and detailed instructions. I bought the finest soybeans I could find, a five-quart enamel container with a fitted lid, and four pounds of stone weights. I soaked and cooked my soybeans, mixed them with Morita-san’s kōji, then mashed them with sea salt and water. I packed it all into the pot, set it in my basement, and prayed for the growth of “good” miso bacteria. Four months later, I cautiously opened the lid. At once, I recognized the sweet rice fragrance that had permeated the brewery. The miso’s surface had acquired a lush dark brown hue, and to my relief, there were no “bad” bacteria. I stirred up my miso, then set it aside again. In November, Morita-san called, asked me how my miso was behaving, and suggested that it was probably ready. With that, I gathered some small containers, made a mental list of the lucky few I would share my miso with, and returned to the basement. I gave my miso several big stirs to even out the color, then I had a taste. “Temae miso desuga…”

The post Magical Miso appeared first on Saveur.

Enter an average home in Japan for dinner today, and the spread is bound to include meat dishes. Japanese cuisine is so omnivorous that, until recent years, vegetarian restaurants were a rarity. But for most of Japan’s history, the majority of people have actually followed a primarily vegetarian diet, with meat considered an occasional delicacy. This makes it all the more surprising that Japan’s annual production of approximately 3.3 million tons of meat only covers about half of the nation’s continuously growing demand for it. It may appear Japan has lost touch with its vegetarian past—but a group of restaurant owners in the country’s rural mountains is working to change that, one bowl of rice at a time.

Japan’s appetite for meat dates back approximately 150 years, when Japanese society began associating it with wealth as a result of Western influence. During World War II, Japanese diets changed out of necessity, due to not only a shortage of farm workers but also redirection of resources toward the war effort by the military-controlled government. By the war’s end, many people had come to depend on foods that previously may have been discarded, such as offal, to avoid starvation. In the decades that followed, Japan saw rapid economic advancement, and as the population became more affluent, meat began occupying a more central position on people’s plates. Fast forward to the present day: enjoying KFC at Christmas has become a longstanding tradition in Japan, stand-up fast-casual steakhouses are gaining popularity, and customers line up for hours at restaurants like Ramen Jiro, a chain serving massive bowls of noodles in fatty pork-bone broth, usually with generous slabs of chashu pork belly on top.

Meat-heavy establishments begin to fade, however, as one heads into more rural areas, including the mountains of Niigata Prefecture on the west coast of Honshu Island. Here sits Minami Uonuma City, a series of sleepy villages connected by a few roads surrounded by miles of rice fields. Without a car, the only way for visitors outside of the city to reach these villages is a train line that often shuts down in the winter, when several feet of snow blanket the landscape.

Like many towns in Japan, Minami Uonuma has its own meibutsu, or local dish widely considered to represent the place. This town’s claim to fame is a fresh, crisp, and colorful dish called “kirizai-don,” a rice bowl topped with nozawana leaf, takuan radish, crushed kagura nanban pepper, and natto (fermented soybeans). Kirizai, which translates simply as “cut up vegetables,” is a centuries-old recipe. “This dish uses the knowledge that people living here acquired in the old days. By using food that can be preserved through winter, we utilized what was readily available and also healthy enough to feed an extended family without wasting anything,” says Yuji Nagumo, a Niigata native and owner of local restaurant Kyo. Kirizai was also once seen as a utilitarian, nutrient-rich army ration. “Back in the Sengoku period (over 500 years ago), samurai could quickly cut up and serve food like kirizai before leaving for battle—things like preserved nozawana and natto probably gave them a quick energy boost before a fight,” Nagumo adds.

Kirizai belongs to a type of cooking sometimes known as yamabito ryouri, or “mountain man cuisine,” a catch-all term for the home cooking of the farming communities in the mountains of Niigata prefecture, as well as parts of neighboring Gunma and Nagano. Yamabito ryouri is seasonal, homemade, and inherently farm-to-table; though this style of food is not strictly vegetarian, most dishes are—and feature local produce almost exclusively, be it fresh, pickled, or fermented. While probiotic foods are now widely regarded as beneficial for digestive health, past inhabitants of Minami Uonuma preserved vegetables for the simple purpose of prolonging their shelf life through the winter. In an interview shortly before he passed away in January, Takumi Saiki, the late owner of beloved local restaurant Kometaro, explained, “That was the way things were for hundreds of years around here; it was never thought of as health food per se, just a part of an everyday sort of meal.”

Though the dish is a local staple, one would be hard-pressed to find the humble, unpretentious kirizai-don outside of Niigata prefecture. Until recently, the dish had little name recognition outside of the regions that consume it. Even in Niigata, kirizai-don is a traditionally home-cooked meal that doesn’t often show up on restaurant menus, and Kyo is one of the few restaurants that serves it regularly. “I think it’s the closest equivalent to something like soul food; there’s nothing else quite like it in Japan,” Nagumo says. Though it has become in vogue in Japan to refer to comforting dishes as “soul food,” yamabito ryouri may have the strongest claim: it is traditional home cooking with a pedigree like nothing else around.

Nagumo is a member of the “Kirizai DE Aitai,” a group of about 20 local restaurant owners who have been promoting kirizai-don—and reintroducing their countrymen to healthy and  delicious farm-to-table cuisine, with an emphasis on the locally grown produce once considered staple foods around these parts. “Kirizai is important because all of its ingredients can be procured locally,” says Nagumo.

Because of the organization’s outreach, kirizai is now being served to local children as part of school lunches. The dish was even featured in the nationwide B-1 Grand Prix competition (a famous contest featuring regional cuisines), drawing food enthusiasts from all across Japan in search of kirizai-don. The group also recently began to serve the dish at rest stops during “gourmet bike tours”, aiming to promote cycling and food in the area. “We thought it would be nice to show the cyclists some of our local specialties, and they asked if we could provide some kirizai,” says Nagumo.

Last year, kirizai restaurants were also part of the town’s “Majidon” local gourmet publicity campaign spotlighting Minami Uonuma’s restaurant scene. More and more, kirizai has become synonymous with culinary promotion in this rural area, and it is even occasionally dubbed “chobishoku,” a Japanese portmanteau that can be translated as “gut beauty food.” 

For 550 yen, or roughly four U.S. dollars, one receives a big bowl full of kirizai-don at Kyo. The famously gooey, stringy natto, combined with the slightly tart nozawana, crunchy takuan, and piquant nanban pepper, creates a complex and bold textural sensation. The simplicity of the dish allows the clean flavors of the plant-based toppings to take center stage.

For Nagumo and others, serving such food is a way to preserve their plant-focused culinary culture for future generations. They hope that both the local children who now routinely eat kirizai and visiting adults who travel a long way in search of the dish can appreciate its benefits beyond taste or novelty. They want to instill eaters with an interest in the foods that grow natively in their own backyards, as an alternative to imported or factory-farmed products. “Of course, my son eats fast food. But when he comes back home from college, he likes things like kirizai,” Nagumo says. “[He] says it tastes like home.”

For the “mountain men” and those who share their table, eating vegetables is both the past and present—and could pave the way for a brighter, tastier future.

The post Tucked Away in Japan’s Rural Mountains, Plant-Driven Cuisine Is Flourishing appeared first on Saveur.

Maki Ogawa realized the power of a well-placed anime character after she sent her three-year-old son off to kindergarten for the first time. Like most toddlers, he would cling to his mother when it was time for her to drop him off. “I thought a cute bento box would help him,” says the Saitama-based Japanese cookbook author of the kawaii packages she started preparing for him.

At that point, Ogawa immersed herself in the world of kyaraben, or decorative bento boxes (sometimes shortened to deco-bens): creatively assembled meals arranged to look like popular cartoon characters—think Hello Kitty, Doraemon, and Pikachu. The kyaraben helped her toddler break the ice at school: “[His] classmates started looking forward to seeing [his lunches], and he made more friends,” says Ogawa. The mom-son duo even developed an after-school ritual of browsing through illustrated books and magazines together to inspire the next day’s creation. 

Ogawa is now behind the bento-dedicated Instagram account “cuteobento”—and one of many creators using social media to share the increasingly popular concept that celebrates Japanese pop culture.

During the peak of the COVID-19 pandemic, the internet couldn’t get enough of kyaraben, which became a culinary outlet akin to sourdough bread making—with major points added for upping the cute factor and creative flair.

Since the inception of bentos about 1,200 years ago, the compartmentalized meal has evolved over the centuries, often reflecting the times. During Japan’s Azuchi-momoyama period, it was a symbol of luxury called Sageju, typically carried by aristocrats during outings to admire the cherry blossoms or the autumn leaves. During the Edo era, theater enthusiasts would enjoy a special lunch box called Makunouchi during intermissions. As railway-based tourism boomed in the island nation during the 1970s, the portability of bento boxes made them especially convenient for travelers, and different regions began making the parcels with local ingredients to offer tourists quick meals with a homemade touch.

Post-World War II, when Japan saw rapid economic growth, mass-produced meals lined the shelves at 7-Eleven stores across the country, and kyaraben became a sub-genre of its own. Manga and anime (like Sailor Moon and My Neighbor Totoro) soared in popularity during the 1980s and 1990s, and when bento boxes featured in the storylines, they catapulted kyaraben to a whole new level of popularity. Equipment to mold rice, trim nori, and slice sausages subsequently hit the market to help reduce prep time. Since 2014, the Japanese government and its embassies across the globe have even hosted bento competitions, helping cement the meals as a national culinary treasure. 

Tokyo-based Japanese food blogger Nishimura Ami is one artist who, like Ogawa, decided to make food her canvas and tweezers her brush. She now has nearly a million subscribers on her YouTube channel, where she teaches viewers how to make decorative bentos inspired by characters from Pokémon GO and the anime show Healin’ Good Pretty Cure (think: the sweet pink-haired Cure Grace). Now a mother, Nishimura notes, “Our culture grew up with cooking at home. This inspires people like me to cook at home” while giving kids a chance to participate. (Kyaraben fervor has gotten so intense that some school children even end up comparing and competing with each other over whose bento looks best.)

Still, most parents would consider the kyaraben a win-win dish: a way to bond over food that’s more fun and nourishing than, say, putting animal-shaped chicken nuggets into the oven. The concept is clever, cute, and “so Instagrammable,” quips Ogawa. And when aesthetic meets algorithm thanks to anime and manga culture going global, many bloggers and influencers now focus exclusively on kyaraben or bento boxes. In recent years, creators outside Japan (like the U.S.-based @packmylunchmom and Australia-based @bentokidslunch) have popped up with their own designs.

Unlike the luxurious curations or emphasis on local flavors that defined bento boxes of the past, the modern kyaraben is a playground for whimsy, experimentation, and artistic expression. It is, at its best, an art form to be devoured—even if at first glance Hello Kitty looks too cute to eat.

The post Hello Kitty In Bento Box Form Is What We All Need Right Now appeared first on Saveur.

It’s commonly said that the Japanese language wields more food-describing onomatopoeia than any other. These adjectives capture the perceived sounds different foods make when we eat them. Saku saku! Fuwa fuwa! According to estimates, there are 445 such words in the Japanese language. 

“English has only slightly more than 130 words to describe the way foods feel in our mouths,” reports Kendra Pierre-Louis in Popular Science‘s exploration of food texture in its latest issue themed around taste. She notes that, in the English language, “most—like crackle, crack, crisp, crunch, and snap—refer to the sensation of biting into something firm. You’d be hard-pressed to find someone describing a delicious meal as going squish or splat.”

It goes without saying that all cultures value their food traditions, but I’d venture to offer the (perhaps biased) opinion that Japan’s focus borders on obsession. Japanese television channels from Asahi to NHK ceaselessly broadcast a stream of shows featuring restaurants, competitive eating, and regional dishes. Food companies constantly innovate products like beer cans that foam upon opening (that famously sold out within two days) and a potato chip for every season and every region (Okinawan citrus!). For a country that emphasizes food so much, it is only natural that there is a vocabulary to match.

A greater range of descriptors allows for greater nuance and specificity in description. After all, textures vary widely across foods. And though a lettuce leaf and a kettle chip might both be described as crunchy, their mouthfeels differ considerably.

It would be a herculean effort to list all of the Japanese onomatopoeia describing food textures, but we can start with a tour of our kitchens to identify some of the most common ones. And let’s not forget that many of the most delicious dishes often take on multiple (think brownies, with their crackly top, chewy corners, and fudgy interiors). Here’s a look at some wide-ranging textural sensations.

Saku saku

The box of Walkers Shortbread that might be in your kitchen pantry is saku saku. Saku saku denotes a crispiness that is also rich (without being moist). Shortbread, tempura, and kettle chips are saku saku, but a celery salad is definitely not. For the same reason, flaky palmiers and croissants are also saku saku.

Use it in a sentence: Don’t overwork the dough if you want your cookies to turn out saku saku.

Shaki shaki

In direct contrast to the richness that defines saku saku foods, shaki shaki foods are refreshing and healthful. All of the crunchy fresh vegetables in your kitchen are shaki shaki. Think the juicy crispness of an Asian pear, or the satisfying bite of a green apple. 

Use it in a sentence: Let’s order the shaki shaki cabbage salad. 

Kari kari

Kari kari is a very specific crispness describing food that has been dried or baked so that the fats have rendered—or foods that have been crisped in fat. Kari kari is used often to describe the brittle crispiness of roasted chicken skin, or slices of fried American bacon. 

Use it in a sentence: The bacon has been frying for so long that it’s turned kari kari.

Pari pari

This refers to a light and delicate crunch, like that of sembei, or Japanese rice crackers. If we are talking potato chips, think classic Lay’s or Pringles, rather than the kettle chip variety. The crackle of the thinnest outer layer of a spring roll is also pari pari. 

Use it in a sentence: These chips are so light and pari pari—perfect for adding some crunch to a salad! 

Fuwa fuwa

This is the sound used to convey airy fluffiness. Imagine soft and pillowy foods, like pancakes , marshmallows, and chiffon cake. When done right, the eggs in your refrigerator can be transformed into a light and jiggly fuwa fuwa omelet. 

Use it in a sentence: For the most fuwa fuwa pancakes, beat the batter briskly to incorporate air.

Mochi mochi

This refers to foods that are dense and chewy. Bubble tea pearls, the tendon in your bowl of pho, and (of course) mochi are all considered mochi mochi.
Use it in a sentence: The chewiness of mitarashi dango’s mochi mochi texture makes them fun to eat.

Toro toro

Rich, melting dishes are toro toro. Many comforting foods fall into this category: a gooey chocolate lava cake, a quivering macaroni and cheese, or a slow-braised slice of pork belly. Takoyaki, diced octopus enveloped in savory wheat flour-based batter, is another toro toro dish. 

Use it in a sentence: These short ribs are so toro toro that they melt in your mouth. 

Neba neba

A beloved texture in Japanese kitchens, neba neba foods are viscous—so much so that they can form threads between the dish and your utensil. Natto (fermented soybeans) is perhaps the most well known, but okra and nagaimo (also known as Chinese yam) are also neba neba.

Use it in a sentence: Combining neba neba foods like wakame and natto is so refreshing in the summertime.

The nuances of these adjectives capture multitudes. Take them with you the next time you’re contemplating between a shaki shaki apple or a fuwa fuwa slice of cake.

The post In Japan, Crispy Tempura and Crunchy Celery Get Their Own Texture Descriptors appeared first on Saveur.

Though rice is one of the world’s most important crops, we don’t see it represented behind the bar nearly enough. Historically, you’d be much more likely to encounter spirits crafted from agave, barley, corn, and sugarcane. Yet, as Asian foods gain more mainstream visibility in the States and as Asian cocktail culture flourishes both at home and around the world, rice is slowly making its way into cocktails through a number of trending ingredients. 

In Japan, where rice has been grown for three millennia, there was already a culture of making and drinking rice-based alcohol and spirits. These have traditionally included sake, a vastly diverse category of fermented rice beverage, and shōchū, a liquor distilled from rice and other ingredients such as barley, sweet potatoes, and buckwheat. But in recent years, other Japanese spirits have emerged, most notably Suntory’s 100 percent rice-based vodka, Haku, which distills the essence of Japanese rice in a fresh and compelling way. 
Ready to start mixing cocktails with rice? We’ve got a field guide to Japanese rice-based cocktail ingredients that you should know. Use them in three excellent Suntory Haku Vodka-based recipes by Julia Momose, bartender and author of The Way of the Cocktail.

Sake

For those new to using rice in cocktails, Momose recommends getting their feet wet with sake. “Take the opportunity to open a bottle of Japanese sake and taste liquid rice,” Momose says. “Depending on what yeast was used, you can find floral and fruity qualities. Trying different sakes is an incredible way to show the breadth of flavor in this grain.” 

It’s important to note that sake is not a spirit, nor a liqueur. Though often referred to as a “rice wine,” sake is made with yeast and fermented, meaning it has more in common with beer than with wine. But in addition to yeast, sake brewers use koji — a catalyst made by saccharifying (breaking down into simple sugars) cooked rice or soybeans using a mold called Aspergillus oryzae — which in turn ferments the white rice. 

Sakes are graded using a rice-polishing ratio, which represents the percentage of the grain that remains after milling — that is, removing the husk and bran to reveal the pure starch. A good category sake to acquaint yourself with is junmai ginjo, which requires a ratio of 40 percent removal and 60 percent remaining. This highly-polished rice yields bright, aromatic flavors in sake. A junmai-shu has even more rice flavor, since it does not use brewer’s alcohol. 

Shōchū

Shōchū is a clear white spirit native to Japan. It’s distilled from rice, barley, sweet potatoes, among other ingredients. Though it’s gained some attention abroad, shōchū remains most popular in Japan. Still, it’s worth testing out as a secondary ingredient in cocktails. For a distinct rice-based shōchū option, Momose recommends Hakutake Shiro Ginrei Shōchū, a light, floral spirit brewed at low temperatures with Ginjo yeast, yielding an aroma similar to that of Ginjo sake. 

Japanese Vodka

The most prized rice category in Japan is uruchimai, or short-grain rice. Once this rice has been fully polished, with husk and bran removed, it’s known as “hakumai” —the most labor-intensive and thus the most pure form of white rice. Hakumai is the rice eaten daily in Japan, and it is also used for specialties like sushi. This ingredient forms the base of Haku, a subtly sweet 100-percent rice vodka from the House of Suntory, which was founded in 1923 as a pioneer of subtle, refined, and complex Japanese whiskies. Suntory is rooted in its commitment to “monozukuri”—the connection between technology, knowledge, and the spirit of Japan’s dedication to craftsmanship; Suntory Haku Vodka is a new iteration of that philosophy, inspired by its thoroughly Japanese hero ingredient. Today, Haku is a fresh, distinctively Japanese take on vodka, inspired by the island nation’s traditional rice spirits, including shōchū and sake.

Haku Vodka starts on the island of Kyushu, a region known for its production of rice spirits. White rice is fermented with koji then double-distilled (in pot and column stills), blended, and filtered through bamboo charcoal. Made to be mixed in cocktails, Haku carries the fragrant profile of rice while remaining a neutral blank canvas. “To be honest, I really like Haku in a vodka soda—it’s so good and so refreshing,” Momose says. “I also enjoy it in a martini and in a highball drink I make myself at the bar: Haku, Japanese sake, and a little bit of soda.”

Japanese ‘Vermouth’

From the nearly one-and-a-half century-old Tsutsumi Distillery in Kumamoto, Japan comes this Oka Kura Bermutto—a wholly original Japanese take on fortified wines like vermouth. This product starts with a pure junmai sake that’s then fortified with 100-percent rice shōchū and local botanicals like yuzu, kabosu, and sansho pepper. 

Genmaicha 

For a non-alcoholic rice ingredient, Momose recommends genmaicha, a toasted brown rice tea. The tea is brewed with genmai, or brown rice where the husk has been removed, but it still has a layer of nutrient-rich germ, imparting a pleasant, toasty, nutty flavor.

Recipes

Violets in Rain

To showcase the subtlety and versatility of rice, Chicago bartender Julia Momose stirs Suntory Haku Vodka with a vacuum-distilled rice shōchū, sake, and violet flower liqueur. “Violets in Rain showcases the delicate side of rice while highlighting the versatility of the raw ingredients within the realm of Japanese spirits,” Momose says. “Suntory Haku Vodka, vacuum-distilled rice shōchū, and a fruity junmai ginjoshu from Hiroshima come together in this martini variation with just a kiss of crème de violette. It is subtle, yet boldly ricey all at once.” Experience the difference rice vodka makes with this beautiful lilac-colored cocktail.

Genmai Sour

Julia Momose created this Japanese-inflected vodka drink using Suntory Haku Vodka. “The Genmai Sour is a shaken and bright cocktail, juxtaposed with the comforting and warming qualities of toasted rice green tea paired with yuzu-koshō, a fermented green chile and yuzu paste,” Momose says. “This mix highlights the zesty and peppery side of the Haku Vodka, and features a no-waste rim, ensuring every bit of the delicious genmaicha may be enjoyed.”
Find both genmaicha and yuzu-koshō at your local Japanese market, or online.

Haku Chawari

Chicago bartender Julia Momose created the Haku Chawari as a reimagined take on the classic shōchū serve. “Chawari means ‘cut with tea,’ or ‘mixed with tea,’ and is a popular way to drink shōchū, the national spirit of Japan, in many izakaya and homes,” says Momose. “I felt it was a fitting nod to the origins of Suntory Haku Vodka itself, being that it starts in Kyūshū, and like shōchū, is fermented with kōji. It then goes on to a second distillation, and is charcoal filtered, processes which classify it as vodka.”

“I wanted to introduce an ingredient from Kyūshū to accent the vodka and the tea in this simple mix,” she continues. “Japanese Bermutto from Tsutsumi Distillery in Kumamoto is an aperitif-style drink made from nihonshu fortified with rice shōchū which has been infused with kabosu, yomogi, yuzu, and sanshō. It is peppery, herbaceous, and citrusy, all flavors which accent Suntory Haku Vodka brilliantly.”

Enjoy Responsibly. Haku® Vodka, 40% Alc./Vol., ©2021 Beam Suntory Import Co., Chicago, IL.

The post This Ingredient Is the Secret Behind Crafting a Japanese-Style Cocktail appeared first on Saveur.

Enjoy Responsibly. Haku® Vodka, 40% Alc./Vol., ©2021 Beam Suntory Import Co., Chicago, IL.

The post The Origin and Art of Japanese Rice appeared first on Saveur.

Tender chunks of pork and vegetables simmer in a thick umber roux. It’s Friday night and almost suppertime onboard the battleship Hachijo, a naval patrol vessel docked in the port of Yokosuka, an hour south of Tokyo. Ketchup, curry, honey, garlic, cayenne, and coffee are added next—a mélange of seasonings that seems strange at first but reduces harmoniously in the pot. Once all of the ingredients are incorporated, the stew is ladled into trays. A heap of steaming white rice provides a signature complement, along with a side salad and a chilled glass of milk. Hungry sailors, hundreds of them, are the last to arrive. It is time for the crew to indulge in a cherished Japanese navy tradition: battleship curry.

In Japan, curry is a versatile favorite all over the island. The curried roux base, with chopped meats or fish, vegetables, tubers, and more or less spice to taste, may contain pickles, fruit, or even traces of chocolate to coax the complex sweet-savory flavor; the result is the ultimate plate of comfort food. Japanese curry is on the table at least once a week in the average household, but before it was a mainland mainstay, curry was a staple for men at sea: Japanese curry has its origins in the navy.

In 1853, when Commodore Matthew Perry’s fleet initiated American relations with Japan, the U.S. Navy ruptured a 200-year-old bubble of sakoku—seclusion—forcing open a sheltered society. Prior to Western interruption, Japan had isolated itself from the rest of the world. Strict regulations limited foreign involvement, and, under the reigning Buddhist doctrine, meat consumption had been banned for centuries. Exposure to western products, customs, and men—men who seemed much healthier and stronger, and who did eat meat—caused the Japanese people to reevaluate their society and cuisine. By the time a British can of curry powder made its way across the ocean in the early 1870s, Japan had entered the Meiji period, an era of restoration and openness to the West, and was ready to embrace new dishes and ingredients.

The concept of curry sailed over to Japan on a British navy ship, but not in the luscious roux-based dish that the Japanese came to revere. Initially, the Japanese navy adopted British curry out of necessity, not luxury. Until this point in the late 19th century, plain rice and other grains presented the only meal available to Japanese seamen; fresh vegetables and fish had long since been reserved for the middle and upper classes at home. Barely sustained by rice alone, the Japanese navy suffered serious malnutrition. Cases of beriberi, caused by a lack of thiamine or vitamin B1, were rampant among crews. In 1872, in an effort to combat vitamin deficiency, the Yokosuka Naval Base was the first to offer British curry at mealtime: a soupier curried broth with beef and vegetables, served with bread. Introducing meat, vegetables, and whole grains to everyday Japanese navy fare provided much needed protein and thiamine.

In time, more than 50 navy galleys put curry on the menu, adapting the dish to Japanese tastes. Substituting rice for more traditional bread, adding more beef, and thickening the texture of curry with flour made the Japanese version, a most suitable dish at sea. The stickier roux adhered to rice and created much less of a mess on deck, and ingredients were cost-effective and delicious. Nutrient-rich curry became the primary means for a hearty, healthy diet, served every Friday to notify crew members of the correct day of the week.

Today sailors in the Japan Maritime Self-Defense Force still enjoy curry on Fridays—in fact, each ship has its own distinct version—and it is always eaten with a spoon, not chopsticks (a custom that points to the dish’s British origins). A salad with tomatoes and a hard-boiled egg traditionally completes the plate, with a glass of milk on the side. Happily, you don’t necessarily need to enlist in the navy to try the curries—all of the ships present their recipes at a curry festival in Tsuchiura each November.

See the recipe for Japanese Battleship Curry »

For more information on the Tsuchiura Curry Festival, contact the Japanese National Tourism Organization (212/757-5640; japantravelinfo.com).

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