August Means One Thing

Praise the lord, Tokyoites have had a reprieve. The last few days have been nothing short of miraculous, and we’ve been relishing the warm afternoons and deliciously cool nights. Before this, the weather had been typical of August in Japan: utterly miserable. In the face of merciless sun and cruel, cruel humidity, I want nothing more than to wilt under our inefficient air conditioner, but the Japanese have a different slant on what I think of as the meanest month of the year. Just as the temperatures climb to 40 and the humidity reaches 90%, the J’s take to the outdoors with their charcoal grills.


Don’t get me wrong. I love a good barbeque, I really do. And Japanese barbeques are a lot of fun, once you get over the feeling that you might faint. First, you start with a sinful amount of meat – beef, pork, sausages, and possibly some innards. Then, you throw in a little something from the sea, commonly squid plus some shellfish. By this point, you’ve stuffed yourself silly and are approaching remorse, but the barbeque isn’t over until you’ve had yakisoba. All Japanese barbeques, without exception, end this way. Naturally, you compare your party’s yakisoba to that of those around you. Some people go to great lengths to turn out fancy versions with homemade sauce and an array of colorful ingredients, while others are just amateurs working from frozen packages.

However, the single defining characteristic of a Japanese barbeque is the unbearable heat. On an appropriately hot day a couple of weeks ago, we joined our friends Eguchi-san and Ai-Young for a day trip to Akigawa and Hossawa Falls, about and hour and a half outside of central Tokyo. We took our place among the revelers crowded along the rocky riverbed and fired up the grill. Eguchi-san had brought the salt and pepper, and with these simple seasonings, we cooked up some surprisingly tasty treats – pork liver, chicken kidneys, slices of beef, pork belly and squid – and finished on a high note.

“Our yakisoba looks way better than theirs.” JP pointed to a group of young, red-faced guys beside us.

“They have no idea what they’re doing.” I shook my head. “Ours is awesome.”

Eguchi watched as the boys dumped a pile of limp noodles over humorously large chunks of meat. “Sad,” he said, turning back to the griddle.

We’d brought wine, but our grilled goodies would have been better with some sake, in particular solidly flavored brews like Wakatake Onikoroshi Junmai Ginjo and Sawanoi Kioke. The folks as Sake Social had sent me these to sample, but alas I drank them before the barbeque. The Onikoroshi has wonderful depth and umami richness coupled with acidity that gives it impressive flexibility. It can dance with what Beau Timkin calls the United Nations of flavors and feelings that accompanies outdoor summer dining. This Junmai Ginjo has an incredible balance that can stand up to the entire flavor spectrum that comes out of the picnic basket. The Sawanoi Kioke is a smoky taruzake with serious complexity that pairs well with deep, rich flavors but also drinks great on its own. This is what I’ll reach for the next time I have yakisoba.

After our riverside feast, we were sunburned and sticky with sweat, but the walk up to Hossawa Falls revived us. The path was lush with greenery, the air on the mountain soft and cool. It was just what we needed…a spot of respite before the next barbeque.

When Dealing with a Whole Watermelon

I’d never thought of a watermelon as a formidable foe before but, as they say, there’s a first time for everything. The truth is that I’d never had to cut one up myself. Even though I grew up eating watermelon in Louisiana, the dirty work had always been done by someone else: namely my mother. Later that job fell to an anonymous entity at my local supermarket, while I spent the summers munching merrily on fat, pink slices that came wrapped in cling film. It’s funny how, once you become an adult, you realize all the simple things you never learned to do, like deboning a chicken or hemming pants.

After a lovely barbeque at the Oinumas’ peaceful countryside home in Kanagawa, they sent us home with a bushel of eggplants, a bag of tomatoes, handfuls of okra, and a surprisingly heavy watermelon – all grown on the fields surrounding their handsome Showa-era estate. Back at my apartment in Tokyo, I contemplated the fruit’s smooth, striped surface as it sat on the kitchen counter. The melon was perfectly round, with a stem curling out of the top like a wayward tuft of hair, and bore a striking resemblance to Oinuma-sensei himself. It looked so vulnerable, and the weight of the cleaver disconcerted me slightly.


Wincing, I plunged the knife into the center, and the melon split open. It happened suddenly, and I hadn’t anticipated the force with which the two halves would break apart. One side rolled off of the counter and landed on the floor with a juicy splat. I shrieked and Misha looked at me accusingly.

“Murderer,” he whispered.

“Misha, please,” I retorted. “It wasn’t my fault.”

He continued following me with his eyes.

I salvaged what I could and scooped the shattered melon flesh into the trash. My attention then turned to the next challenge: the seeds. When celebrity chefs use watermelon in recipes, they always seem to have immaculate, seedless varieties on hand. In nature, however, these don’t really exist. After what seemed like an extraordinarily long time, I managed to remove most of the hard bits, but I began to suspect that organic watermelons actually contained a higher ratio of seed to flesh.

By the time JP returned, I was still picking away at the little black flecks.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“I had an accident.”

“What happened?” He raised his eyebrows.

“I dropped half of the watermelon,” I confessed.

“My clean floor!” he wailed, cupping his face with both hands like the boy from Home Alone.

I sighed and continued picking.

Half an hour later, the salad was ready. The combination of sweet watermelon, salty feta cheese, piquant red onion, and lime juice felt supremely refreshing at the end of another miserably hot day. The arugula added a kick of zesty bitterness. This simple salad is a fine match for a light sake like Yuki no Bosha Junmai Ginjo, an easy-drinking brew that offers generous fruit and bright flavors overlaying a structure of firm acidity. Sake Social was kind enough to send me a bottle, along with pairing suggestions by sake samurai Beau Timkin. Beau recommends the Yuki no Bosha with fresh fruit, salads, cheeses and gentle cold pastas. I’ve always found his advice to be spot-on, and this was no exception.


In theory, this meal requires about ten minutes of preparation time. I reckon it took me over an hour, given that I had to clean the mess off the floor. Still, it was well worth the effort and I’ve learned a thing or two – when dealing with a whole watermelon, act swiftly and give it a wide berth.

The Organic Sake Challenge

Well, my friends, it’s been a while but I’m back. Although I’ve taken a little break from blogging, I’ve been managing to keep myself busy by commenting obsessively on my friend Karin’s awesome site Smythologies. I’ve always said that Karin was my smartest friend, and if you check out her blog, you’ll understand why.

A recent piece I wrote for the Japan Times about sake made with organic rice has engendered a fair amount of discussion. Several people have sent emails asking about the flavor of these kinder, gentler, more environmentally friendly brews and whether or not you can taste the difference. On this point, the experts are divided. My sake sensei, John Gauntner, says no, and some producers of organic sake, such as Takasawa-san of Kikusui, concur. Aoshima-san at Kikuyoi and Niida-san at Kinpou, however, both insist that organic rice yields sake that is more complex, with greater depth and strength of character. While I’m reluctant to generalize, I have to say that – in the case of sake made by these two producers, at least – I have to agree.

As part of my research, I traveled down to Shizuoka to interview Aoshima-san and was treated to a horizontal tasting. I sampled this year’s organic Kikuyoi Matsushita-mai Junmai Ginjo and Junmai Daigingo alongside their non-organic counterparts. It’s significant to note that these sakes were the same in every respect – the same Yamada Nishiki rice strain, milled to the same percentage – apart from the fact that the Matushita line was organic. It was truly surprising. In all honesty, I hadn’t expected to notice a difference, but there it was – a subtly modulated grace coupled with attractive sturdiness. Take a look at my notes:

Matsushita-mai Junmai Daiginjo – Heady tropical fruits on the nose, touch of pineapple, echoed on the palate. Very dry throughout with a clean finish. Exhibits a kind of determination.

Kikuyoi Junmai Daiginjo – Quieter nose, sharper focus. Sophisticated but stronger sense of alcohol.

Matsushita-mai Ginjo – Very fruity, almost candy-like nose, green flavors on the palate, followed by bitter notes. Full body, with tight acidity running through the center. Dry finish.

Kikuyoi Junmai Ginjo – Light and fruity, sweet-ish impact but dry overall, with a soft, mild bitterness at the finish. Quite smooth.

Aoshima-san compares the difference between organic and non-organic sake to that of a kid raised in the country versus a child from the city. The country boy grows up to be strong and healthy, if lacking at times in manners; on the other hand, the city-slicker, though sophisticated and refined, ends up being a little weak. Though the organic sakes take a bit of extra time to settle down, they tend to keep better and last longer.


I have to emphasize that this is the only time I’ve done a side-by-side comparison, so I can’t say that the same holds true for all sake. I’m not sure if there is a non-organic version of the Tamagawa Kouno Tori Kimoto, but the organic one is pretty provocative stuff. It’s full on and hits - as opposed to falls on, or flows over - your tongue with bone-dry, masculine force. All of the Odayaka, Shizenshu, and Tamura sake I’ve tried from Kinpou has been organic, so I have no way of knowing if they’re better or worse than their non-organic stuff. What I do know is that their Odayaka Tokubetsu Junmai-shu is one of my all-time favorites. Super-mellow and finely textured, with a gentle sweetness coloring a dry, ricey background, it’s a brew you can find me drinking all year round (as long as I can find it – my local often sells out). In fact, both JP and I like Odayaka so much that we went to Fukushima a couple of years ago to make sake at Kinpou with Etsuko and Ted.

While I doubt that I’ll necessarily go out of my way to buy organic, munouyaku, or shizen sake, I suspect that I won’t really have to: more of these products seems to be popping up every year. Funnily enough, I’m also discovering that some of the sakes I like already fit the bill. Who knew that Hououbiden Wakamizu Junmai Ginjo Muroka Nama was organic? Life’s just full of little surprises.