Going to Meet the Michelin Man

Coolly charming and impeccably styled, Jean-Luc Naret cut a dashing figure in his crisp, black suit and white shirt. He looked, as my friend Yuchin would say, expensive, but sartorial perfection is probably mandatory for the director of the Michelin guides. I, on the other hand, looked like a slob. Sneaker-shod, bearing a disconcerting resemblance to Whoopi Goldberg in a loose knit dress and leggings, I began to worry that the days spent working at home in my pajamas had warped my sense of style.

I’d been asked to interview him about the upcoming Kyoto/Osaka guide for the Japan Times. Mr. Naret has the habit of smiling at the end of his sentences, though this did little to put me at ease. Throughout our 30-minute chat, I remained nervous, much more concerned about my sweaty hands (a cruel scourge that has plagued me since childhood – I still wince at the memory of piano recitals) than the assignment I’d been given. Even so, that didn’t stop me from shamelessly angling for a job.

“How…” I began, questioning the appropriateness of the words to follow, “does one go about becoming a Michelin inspector?”

The director raised one eyebrow imperceptibly. “Well, obviously, we don’t advertise,” he said. “We’re looking for people who are passionate about food with an eye for detail. We get a lot of writers.”

“I’m a writer!” I stopped myself from saying.

“We never take people who have been working as food critics or chefs,” he continued.

“I’m not a food critic, I just write about bars!” I muffled the interjection.

Mr. Naret, who had been sitting perfectly still for 20 minutes, shifted slightly in his seat, as though afflicted by mild gastric discomfort.

“A new way of getting the right people is usually to get people as sommeliers, who’ve already been trained in other countries, who’ve already got the palate and can identify the different textures and flavors.”

I nodded, far too enthusiastically. Mr. Naret shifted again.

“What we do is take them to lunch, and at the end of the lunch, we ask them to tell us their experience in two pages,” he said.

“I could do that!” I shouted with my eyes, leaning forward in my seat like the annoying kid who knows all the answers in class.

Mr. Naret was gracious not to acknowledge my hidden agenda by laughing in my face. It was, to be fair, frankly ridiculous. But for a moment, I wondered if it might not be too late for me to change professions. We all need dreams, don’t we?

What's in a Stereotype?

Say what you will about Nobuyuki Matsuhisa. Lauded by fans as the man who brought Japanese cuisine to the rest of the world and reviled by detractors as a sell-out, he's a divisive figure among foodies. But he must be doing something right - his fusion-fueled empire now spans 11 countries. Ironically, the one place where Nobu isn’t so hot is his native Japan. I thought of this as I watched him give his presentation during the Tokyo Taste food summit.

Clearly nervous and sweating profusely, Nobu demonstrated some of his signature dishes : “new style” sashimi, fish in wasabi-butter sauce, sashimi salad. Like fellow expatriate Tetsuya Wakuda, he mumbled something about being more used to giving these kinds of presentations in English. I felt for him, even more so when the woman who’d volunteered to sample his food started picking at it.

“What do you think of the new style sashimi?” he asked.

“Oh, it’s very delicious,” she tried hard to sound enthusiastic, “but…cilantro….is…difficult for me.”

I wanted to throw her off the stage.

Later, though, I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of annoyance when Nobu explained that he uses a lot of soy sauce, wasabi, and garlic because foreign people really like those strong flavors.

“Now you’re painting with a broad brush,” I huffed to myself. “As though foreign palates are so dull they can only discern aggressive flavors, like we’re all Australian Shiraz and chili, all the time.” I crossed and uncrossed my legs irritably.

Still, as he swirled a knob of butter and garlic in his pan with a mixture of wasabi, soy sauce, and dashi, I couldn’t resist the aroma. It was narcotic, and it made me hate the lady on the stage even more.

The memory of this experience inspired me to recreate the sauce at home the other night. I used it with salmon, and the result was delicious. JP and I enjoyed this little experiment with a bottle of Taninoi Yuki no Tage namazake that my adorable friend Rachel smuggled out of Niigata.


Taninoi is a tiny brewery, and the conservative kuramoto refuses to export his sake – even outside of the prefecture! His logic is that other people won’t fully appreciate it, so it’s not worth the cost and bother of advertising and shipping. I should also note here that the president also doesn’t allow women in the brewery. Even in the famously old-fashioned sake world, this is pretty rare.

Although I can’t say that I agree with the kuramoto’s views, I can tell you that the sake is lovely. Bursting with fresh aromas of anise and fruit that hint at sweetness, the sake is really clean and finishes without a trace of stickiness. It’s a high-alcohol number, so we each added an ice cube to our cups, which made it much lighter and milder on impact. After a few days, though, it mellowed out beautifully and became smooth and supple, a terrific match for the fennel and crispy proscuitto salad we had last night.

I hope that Taninoi’s president changes his mind and starts spreading some of his sake around. Mine is one unsophisticated foreign palate that likes it very much.

Cause Celebre

I would never describe myself as the star-struck type. Celebrities fail to arouse in me the pulse-quickening excitement and stupefying awe that they do in other people. Only once in my life have I ever requested an autograph, from Alan Ginsberg shortly before his death, and I don’t even have it anymore: when I asked him to sign something for me, he asked if he could sign my stomach. The ink has since faded.

Having said that, though, I have to confess that I nearly choked upon hearing that David Sedaris had spent three months in Japan while working on his book, When You Are Engulfed in Flames.

“Why didn’t he call me?” I wondered. Lost for a moment in delusion, I was genuinely puzzled.

Of course, I have no reason to assume that David Sedaris would know who the hell I am, much less get in touch with me, but I couldn’t help feeling hurt. For some inexplicable reason, I have a strong attachment to this particular author. After all, haven’t people been comparing my writing style to his for years? So what if those people were just my friends from Berkeley. When I learned that someone had been calling himself the David Sedaris of wine writing, I was livid; that was a role I’d tacitly claimed as my own long ago.

I’d probably been sulking over the Sedaris snub for days by the time I caught up with my friend Sophie for a drink at Kuri. When we met in front of the Sony Plaza, she turned to me and said, “Did you know that David Sedaris was here working on his book?”

“Yeah, I’d heard that,” I answered, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Don’t tell anyone, but when I found out, I thought, ‘Oh, what a shame, we could have gone for a drink!’” Her eyes grew wide, and she made an exaggerated gesture, like someone taking a stab at a trivia question. “Can you believe it? I actually thought that!”

“Oh girl, I thought the same thing,” I said, putting my hand on her arm. I was relieved. Not only had we both been affected by the Sedaris fantasy, Sophie had gone one step further and imagined him calling her for a drink. This opened up new possibilities to obsess over. On our way to the bar, all I could think of was where to take him.

“Well, surely, he’d like to try sake,” I thought, “So I could bring him here, too, and set up a tasting for him.”

As soon as the thought occurred to me, a shadow of doubt crossed my mind. If we were at a sake bar, I’d probably geek out and bore him stiff. No, no, better to stick with wine.

“Okay, New York Bar might be good,” I deliberated, considering the Lost in Translation reference. Would he find that clichéd? “If he’s a real connoisseur, perhaps I should take him to Elevage.”

But Elevage is so quiet, and I wasn’t even sure if he drank wine. I knew he liked champagne, but…

“Ah! He likes Scotch!” I remembered. “We can go to Helmsdale!”

Not entirely satisfied with my new choice, I decided that someplace kitschy might appeal to his quirky sense of aesthetics.

“Piano Bar in Nonbei Yokocho? How about Tomorrow in Golden Gai?”

Once we sat down, though, I came back to reality. Sophie and I immediately ordered two tasting flights and launched into a juicy gossip session. By the time we’d clinked glasses for the sixth time, I’d come to terms with the fact that I’d probably never sit in this bar with David Sedaris, and that was fine. It would likely end up being an hour of painful small talk, or turn into an interview about his career.

“Who needs David Sedaris,” I slurred.

“What?” Sophie giggled.

“Oh, nothing,” I mumbled, “Cheers, honey.”

Blossoms Dearie

For a few brief days every spring, people of all ages, across all economic brackets, turn out in droves to revel under the cherry trees. For reasons buried deep in the Japanese psyche, the fleeting appearance of the cherry blossoms carries tremendous cultural significance. O-hanami, or cherry blossom viewing, represents both the celebration and mourning of beauty’s transience, concepts that run closely parallel to the drink-fuelled merriment and subsequent hangovers that tend to accompany these parties.

For those of us in Tokyo, precious little time remains to catch the blossoms at their poignant best, just at the petals begin to blanket the ground. The sakura will grace us with their pale pink iridescence for one or two days more.

Recently, several wine retailers have been capitalizing on the hanami craze and shrewdly pushing sparkling roses. Indeed, a perfect afternoon under the cherry trees might include a chilled bottle of strawberry-soft Moet et Chandon Rose, or a delicate Perrier Jouet Rose Fleur de Champagne, which comes in a fittingly floral bottle.

But, honestly speaking, there’s no need to spend a wad of cash on booze for your hanami. These occasions rarely end in poetic meditations on life, death, and beauty; they’re more about cutting loose and having a good time with friends. Sadly and all too often, this translates into over-consumption of cheap beer - or worse, happo-shu, a beer-like abomination made with little or no malt. Just because the group of salarymen beside you is getting trashed on crap, though, doesn’t mean you have to. Here are my picks for more civilized blossom viewing.

Bodega Norton Extra Brut from Argentina is a clean, dry sparkler with good body and a slightly sweet finish. Fresh and unfussy, it’s great with classic picnic dishes like fried chicken and potato salad. This was the first bottle we opened at my friend Danielle’s hanami do last Sunday.

Les Terres du Sud Rose, a Grenache and Cinsault blend made exclusively for Japanese importer The Vine by Louis Barroul of St. Cosme, offers aromas and flavors of juicy red berries overlaying a dry, crisp midpalate. It’s versatile, with fresh acidity, and marries with a wide range of foods. Try it with veggie sticks and roasted red pepper hummus, sweet soy glazed chicken meatballs, or a grilled vegetable salad tossed with anchovy dressing and lemon zest.

Rikyubai Kasumi Junmai Ginjo is a fabulously food-friendly usunigori, or lightly cloudy, unpasteurized sake from Daimon Shuzo. This refreshingly dry, finely textured usunigori insinuates melon and Japanese pear on the palate and pairs very well with aromatic herbs and dishes with a hint of spiciness – seared katsuo (bonito) scattered with bright shiso and scallions, smoked salmon and cream cheese canapés with fresh dill, Thai green papaya salad.

Happy Hanami, everyone! But by all means, watch out for those hangovers.

Wine and Sake for the Times

Although the cherry blossoms are blooming beneath skies of wispy blue, winter has yet to relinquish its hold on the city. The sun is shining, but a chilly damp hangs in the air and the wind is positively spiteful. While my eyes tell me it's spring, at night, I'm still opting for warming stews and soups over pasta primavera.

My taste in drinks, too, has not yet crossed the vernal equinox. Upon returning from Kansai the other night, we made short work of a bottle of Cusomano Noa, a hefty blend of Nero d'Avola, Cabernet Sauvignon, and Merlot, while gnawing on some roast lamb chops at our favorite local Italian. This heavily extracted Sicilian unleashes ripe berry and black plum notes on the palate, along with sweet spices and jammy texture. No spring flower, this.

The day before yesterday, I gave JP the task of choosing a wine (he finds this nerve-racking) to go with our dinner, linguine with pancetta and clams. His choice of Vina Santa Maria's Equuus '05 was a surprise. A modern Spanish blend of Tempranillo, Cab Sauv, and Syrah, the Equus had a puckering, tannic attack, and I was a little worried that it wouldn't go. But, in the end the fruit won out - black and red berries rose to the fore, with a hint of earthiness - and it actually paired nicely. Perhaps it was all that pancetta.

Last night, we stumbled upon a version of Amanoto's Umashine that had been milled to 80%. I'm quite familiar with the Amanoto product line, Umashine in particular, but I'd never seen this Muroka (non-charcoal filtered) junmai-shu before. Ever since the regulations requiring that junmai-shu be milled to at least 70% changed a few years ago, people have been speculating that quality would suffer. I can't really remember the last time I tried a sake with a seimaibuai of more than 70%, but I had complete faith in Amanoto. And at only Y1000, there was no reason not to give it a go. Like most people around the world, I'm not immune to the effects of the financial crisis, but I have no intention of becoming a teetotaler.

We drank this at room temperature and it was, as I'd suspected it would be, really tasty. Full-bodied and richly layered, the Umashine starts with a sweet, fruity attack that unfurls on the midpalate to reveal a ricey character that persists throughout the finish. I could really see the thread of continuity, its relationship to its more highly-milled cousin. It went nicely with our pureed kabocha and miso soup sweetened with honey; the toasted grain flavors of the sake echoed the nuttiness of the pumpkin. It was also surprisingly good with our salad of raw udo and broccolini dressed in a spicy mustard vinaigrette, as well as the intensely salty pickles I'd brought back from Kyoto. All in all, it was the perfect accompaniment...to the meal, the thunderstorm outside, and Act II of Die Walkure.