Failure

With a job as exacting as kaiseki cuisine, there's going to be a lot of failure at first, and a fair bit even down the line. Chefs make mistakes, have bad ideas, and ruin food often. If it's the owner or the top chef doing something funky, it's overlooked, but us little guys get hauled over the coals frequently for screwing up, whether it was really our fault or not. I was recently subject to a full-on explosion when I didn't vinegar mackerel correctly and the flesh broke apart. Never mind that the fish was too fatty to take the salting and vinegar (salt will melt the fat and make fish with lots of fat disintegrate), it was my responsibility to turn out a class product regardless of the original materials. As my direct superior, Fugu Senpai got it twice as rough as me for not following my every move. I felt terrible about that; it's not as if he doesn't get ripped up by Soba Master every day without me contributing to his stress load.

The upshot of all this is that when you do obtain the stray phrase of approval (usually expressed along the lines of 'that's acceptable', or by not getting yelled at), it means so much more. Japanese kitchens are not there to built up future chefs, they are there to rip you to your bones, extract every mistake and weakness, and reform you in their image. It's a very rough life, but that's why Japanese food is the classiest in the world.

新蕎麦: Shin-Soba, New Soba

Everyone in Japan gets worked up about the 新米 (shin-kome; new rice), the first rice from the fall harvest. The rice sits on the shelves from that time on, gradually drying out and getting tougher, so the softer, sweeter new rice is much regarded.

Soba is the same. The new harvest has just come out, and the 'aroma' of the soba is stronger using the new grains. Soba, aka buckwheat, has usual pyramid-shaped seeds which are ground and made into a flour used to make the grey noodles. Our current supply comes from Hokkaido. Most soba is grown in mountainous regions where rice was hard to grow, and became the staple.

It took me a long time to appreciate these very slight differences between things like this year's and last year's soba or rice. When I first came to Japan, everything tasted blah. I couldn't understand it when people got all worked up over a fish fresher than usual or a bowl of noodles in a fishy broth only slightly different from any other fishy broth. Not having the culinary background of this country, I also did things that shocked the residents because I treated the food differently. For example, I have been known to sauté soba noodles. Don't ever tell that to a Japanese person.

I get the subtleties now, and American food tastes too heavy and sweet. But it's still with a faint air of amusement that I watch those around me get excited or outraged over food that wasn't even a part of my life until a few years ago. To quote my former co-chef, we're making food, not building bombs, people.

I still recommend the new soba, though.

Eyeballs

I know you've been wanting to see this ever since the squid post. Here are the eyeballs in person, along with the beaks and unwanted long sections of the tentacles. Eyeballs have been following me today- after completing this job, I politely refused the offer of eating as part of my dinner a fish eye rivaling the size of my palm. You're supposed to put the whole thing in your mouth, squish and drink up, and pull out the surrounding cartilage ring. Dude.

天ぷら: Tempura

Speciality tempura restaurants, only serving fried food, are of the elite. You sit at the counter in front of the fryer and wait for tidbits to be deposited on your dish. They can cost more than a normal kaiseki meal if you go to a good place, i.e. $100 USD or more. It's hard for an American to swallow that kind of bill for a method of cooking associated with chicken fingers, so the best place I ever went only racked me up about $35 bucks.

The deal with tempura is that you have to get the batter right. At this stage in the chain of command at my restaurant, I've progressed to fry cook (again, dammit, I've gone through this stage in America so many times), at least for the cheaper lunch sets. The position is a bit more elite in Japan, anyway. My nemesis has turned out to be 海老, aka shrimp. People in various countries expect a certain aesthetic from their food, whether they realize it or not. Americans usually expect their shrimp to be curled up, the way shrimp do naturally. Japanese expect theirs to be stretched out straight, with the tail fanned, and when deep fried, to have plenty of batter bitlets sticking out of it. These are called 花 (hana; flower), because it looks like the shrimp is 'blooming'.

I'm lucky that we're using pre-mixed tempura flour and not making it from scratch, or this would be even harder; as it is, we have to go through a lengthy process of making cuts in the bottom of each shrimp, where the tendon is, and pressing them out to make them flat. The batter must be the correct mix, not too thick or the tempura will turn out cakey and not too thin or you can see the shrimp's skin through the batter (another no-no). Even with all the prep, the shrimp tend to curl in the fryer so you have to watch that, and squirting extra batter on top to form the right amount and texture of hana is the most irritating and difficult part. The shrimp are always served back-forward, so if the shrimp turned in the fryer and the hana formed on the stomach, it means nothing and the presentation is still bad. I'm gradually getting better, but I wonder where all these visual rules came from?

栗: Chestnuts Pt 2: The Revenge of the Pods

When I was little, we gathered blackberries from an empty lot in the neighborhood before it got built up. But I think most Americans don't really get into gathering stuff from the wild. We're a culture extremely preoccupied with food safety issues and cleanliness, and the idea of just picking up something from the ground and eating it is very unappealing. The Japanese are more open about that sort of thing. Groups of friends or families often go on mushroom-hunting or 山菜 (sansai: mountain veggies) gathering trips at the appropriate seasons. One of the reasons 'organic' hasn't taken off in such a big way in Japan is because the Japanese already see it as self-evident that wild, uncultivated or at least barely touched ingredients are best, and don't feel they need to label something so obvious. While I don't do a lot of food-gathering in the Tokyo streets, I had a pleasant experience when I went back to my old home in Ibaraki Prefecture north of Tokyo. Fall was already well under way, and while dirt biking we pass some chestnut trees.

We got off our bikes, stuffed them in our bags (those spines go through bike gloves), and I soaked them overnight and spent the next afternoon peeling them. We made 栗ご飯 (kuri gohan; chestnut rice) for a BBQ the next day. The aroma was incredible, it blew store-bought chestnuts out of the water. Though they were tiny compared to the cultivated version:

栗ご飯 作り方:

栗ー　　　いっぱい（むいたもの）

米ー　　　３カップ

だし汁ー　９００cc

薄口醤油ー４０cc

みりんー　１５cc（必要ではない）

塩ー　　　小さじ１/２

酒ー　　　３０cc

１. 米は洗ってざるに上げ、３０分おく。

２. 栗は半分か４分の１に切る。

３. だしに薄口醤油、みりん、塩をあわせ、かき混ぜて塩を溶かす。

４. ご飯用の鍋に洗い米３.の調味しただしじる、栗を入れて炊く。

５. 炊き上がったら酒をふり、１０分を待つ。

Chestnut Rice Recipe:

Chestnuts-As many as possible (peeled)

Rice (short-grained)- 3 cups

Dashi Stock- 900 cc

Usukuchi Soy Sauce (regular works fine too)- 40 cc

Mirin- 15 cc (optional)

Salt- 1/2 teaspoon

Sake- 30 cc

1. Wash the rice and let it sit 30 minutes in a colander.

2. Cut the chestnuts into halves or quarters depending on size.

3. Mix the dashi with the soy, mirin, and salt until it dissolves.

4. Mix the rice with the seasoned dashi from Step 3, add chestnuts, and cook.

5. When done cooking, sprinkle the sake on top and let sit 10 minutes before eating.