Falling in Love (Again) with Sake

The weather's been on a crazy emotional roller-coaster ride. We'd had a pretty chilly cold snap a couple of weeks ago. Then, after days of walking around without jackets this week, we've been plunged into frigid temperatures without warning. It's hard to even know what season it is. But despite the somewhat inconvenient bouts of meteorological confusion, autumn is still my favorite time of the year.

Here in Japan, gourmets find much to love during fall – persimmons, mushrooms, and an array of fish are at the height of flavor this season. Sake lovers, too, have reason to rejoice. Traditionally, sake is brewed in the winter and pressed in the spring. While spring’s shinshu, literally “new sake,” has its own particular charms, connoisseurs know that autumn is the time when sake really shines. Shinshu delights with its exuberance and youthful enthusiasm, but it often has a brash, unsettled character. After the sake has had some time to rest – generally six months to a year – the flavors begin to deepen and develop complexity, in much the same way as they do in wine.


A uniquely autumnal treat is hiyaoroshi, a variety of semi-unpasteurized sake that comes out between September and November. Sake is usually pasteurized twice, once after pressing, and once again before shipping. This is done to halt the activity of heat-sensitive enzymes and to kill off microorganisms, which can lead to undesirable flavors and aromas. Pasteurized sake is more stable, with a longer shelf life, and more even-keeled in terms of overall character. Unpasteurized sake, on the other hand, has a bold freshness and brio that holds great appeal for many. Completely unpasteurized sake is called hon-nama or nama-nama. Sake that is pasteurized only once after pressing is called nama-zume, and sake pasteurized only once before shipping is called nama-chozo. Hiyaoroshi – the word comes from the characters for “cool” and “take down”— is fall’s special brand of nama-zume, released just as the temperatures begin to cool down.

The sake is also sometimes referred to as aki-agari. The expression, which derives from the words for autumn and completion, reflects the idea that the sake is “ready” in the fall, after a period of maturation.

This style retains some of the fresh green aromas, zippy acidity, and playful fruit flavors of namazake, but brief exposure to heat lends it more stability and also smoothes out some of the rough edges. Though styles vary from brewery to brewery, hiyaoroshi tends to have a lively crispness that puts one in mind of a brisk autumn morning, or chilly fall evening. Naturally, this kind of sake is best enjoyed with seasonal dishes.

Like all varieties of unpasteurized sake, hiyaoroshi must be stored in the refrigerator to ensure that the potentially damaging enzymes and microorganisms remain dormant. Unpasteurized sake can change very quickly and very drastically. Although drinking sake that has “gone bad” will not harm you physically, you’re likely to find it highly unpleasant.

At one of my sake tastings with Elizabeth Andoh earlier this month, we tried a few different varieties of hiyaoroshi. I'd chosen three that I thought would pair nicely with Elizabeth's autumnal menu of soy and ginger-simmered sea bream shigureni, edible chrysanthemum and persimmon salad, and mixed mushroom pilaf. For the fish, I went with Gozenshu Nine Junmai-shu Hiyaoroshi from Okayama. A crisp and dry sake made from Omachi, it had good breadth and tinges of herbal bitterness that complemented the earthy flavors of the fish. With the piquant-sweet salad, I recommended the Joukigen Junmai Nama Hiyaoroshi from Ishikawa. This sake had a fresh, light impact, good acidity and a well-developed center of umami, and was actually one of my favorites in the line-up. But the most popular sake turned out to be the fruity and refined Yuki no Bosha Junmai Ginjo Hiyaoroshi from Akita. I put this with both the salad and the mushrooms, and it fared nicely with both.

With December only one day away, I suppose that we're nearing the end of fall. But there's still plenty of time to enjoy some tasty hiyaoroshi. In fact, I've got a bottle of Urakasumi Junmai-shu Hiyaoroshi chilling in the fridge as we speak...

Oodles of Noodles

Like so many revolutions, the rise sanuki udon began with a book. Sanuki udon, Shikoku’s special brand of thick wheat noodles, had long been revered by udon connoisseurs in western Japan, but the release of Osorubeki Sanuki Udon (The Astounding Sanuki Udon) sparked a craze that spread like wildfire across the country. Written by Shikoku Gakuin University professor Tao Kazutoshi, the book provides detailed information on the noodle shops of Kagawa prefecture – no small feat, given that the area boasts over 800 – and has inspired a wave of udon pilgrimages to the area.


Udon noodles are made from a deceptively simple mixture of flour, water, and salt. Thanks to its geography, Shikoku enjoys an abundance of seawater, which was originally used in the recipe. First, warm salt water is slowly drizzled around the perimeter of a mound of flour. After forming a ball with the fingers, the dough is kneaded, and anyone who has tried making udon can confirm that it is a full-body experience. Traditional udon makers use the heels of their feet to stomp the dough, working in a circular motion to ensure an even consistency – I’ve actually done this once and it takes time, say twenty years, to get the hang of it. Next, the dough is rolled out by hand, cut into thin strips, and boiled. The noodles are served either hot or cold, floating in hot broth, or with a dipping sauce, and garnished with sliced scallions and grated ginger.

What makes Sanuki udon special is their texture, both chewy and silky at the same time. Perfectly prepared udon noodles should offer both the firm bite of al dente pasta and the pliant density of mochi, or rice cakes. These characteristics were at first thought to derive from the wheat, which was grown locally until an unusually wet summer in the 1970s wiped out crops across the entire prefecture. These days, the wheat for udon is mostly imported from Australia, and most experts now agree that the particular techniques and recipes used in Shikoku are largely responsible for the appeal of Sanuki udon.

Slick, slurpable, and immensely satisfying, sanuki udon is viewed not as gourmet fare but as hearty fast food. In Shikoku, a bowl can be had for as little as Y100. In Tokyo, soba has traditionally dominated this sphere. Since 2003, however, a number of restaurants specializing in Sanuki udon have cropped up, offering generous portions of handmade noodles and all the fixings for well under Y1000 per person.

At Tokyo Mentsudan in Shinjuku, a line snaking outside the door typically begins forming before noon. One of the first to bring real Kagawa-style udon dining to the capital, the shop makes their noodles fresh daily, while packages of dried noodles can also be purchased to take home. At the front of the shop, you can watch the noodle makers at work, as they roll, cut and cook the udon in huge vats of boiling water. The main dining space is a wide, open room that resembles a summer camp cafeteria. At lunchtime, the pace is hectic and quintessentially Japanese.

A large sign at the entrance explains the procedure in Japanese and English – choose from around a dozen varieties of udon, place your order (sho – small, or dai – large), and then carry your tray to the self-service counter. Oden items, such as simmered daikon radish and fish cake, and an abundance of fried snacks like iwashi (sardine) and nasu (eggplant) tempura are available from Y100 per piece. The fact that they also serve some pretty good sake is another big plus. On a recent visit, I noticed one of my favorite Saitama producers, Shinkame, as well as trusted names like Hatsumago on the list.

Sorry for the long silence, but I’ll be back again soon with a word or two on hiyaoroshi and the seasonal brews I’m digging right now.

Tokyo Mentsudan
Nishi Shinjuku 7-9-15 Daikan Plaza Business Kiyota 1F
5389-1077