The Soul of Japan through the Drinking Glass

It happens to the best of us. We go through our days, wrapped up in routines as comfortable as the sweats we used to wear in college. No facet of life is immune to stagnancy, be it work, romance, or drinking habits. Recently, I've noticed myself falling back on the usual suspects, brands that I know well and that are easy to come by -- Dassai, Kagatobi, Urakasumi, Kokuryu, you know the drill.

But it's a new year and I'm feeling the need to shake things up a bit, so I'm looking to some of my wine and sake-loving blogger friends for advice. This week, I hit my buddy Tony with the question, "What do you want to drink more of in 2010?" He's the author of the terrific blog The Soul of Japan (gotta love that name), a history buff with a taste for the finer things, like old school R&B, pie, and -- of course -- sake.

His answer? Arabashiri. But not just any old arabashiri...Head on over there to check it out for yourself.



Many thanks to Tony for humoring me, and for the use of this great photo!

Chichibu Keeps You Coming Back

When people come to visit me in Japan, it always amazes me how much they travel around.

“We’re going up to Nagano, down to Shikoku, then we plan to hit Hiroshima, Osaka, and Kyoto before heading up to Niigata.”

“Wow, that’s a pretty full itinerary.”

“Yeah, have you ever been to Beppu?”

“Um, no.”

“Hokkaido?”

“I’d really like to someday, but…”

“Okinawa?”

“Uh…”

It’s kind of embarrassing, but in all the time I’ve lived here, I’ve seldom ventured outside of Tokyo’s 23 wards. To be honest, there are even parts of the city I’ve never explored. Part of the problem is sheer laziness, so last year I resolved to get out and see more of the country. It’s an ongoing endeavor but I’ve made some decent progress so far. It started in March with my stint as a kurabito at Daimon Shuzo in Osaka. Since then, research for my sake articles in the Japan Times has taken me to Shizuoka for an interview with Aoshima-san of Kikuyoi, then out to Ibaraki to call on Yamauchi-san of Wataribune. Plus, I’ve been out to Chichibu four times since August.

That’s right, Chichibu.

The first time my friend Hanae mentioned this sleepy little town in Saitama, I thought she was having a sneezing fit.

“I’m having and exhibition in Chichibu,” she said.

“Where?” I crinkled my nose.

“Chichibu!”

“Oh, bless you,” I muttered. “Where?”

After one more Laurel-and-Hardy-esque exchange, it became clear that she was talking about the name of a city. I’d never heard of it, but everyone else seemed to know it. Suddenly, I began to see and hear about Chichibu everywhere; it was like learning a new vocabulary word.

“Yeah, Chichibu. Penelope loved it there, she used to go like once a month…something to do with ceramics.”

“It’s great for hiking, such a wonderful area.”

“Chichibu? People go crazy for that place.”

“It’s famous for the shibazakura. Don’t you know?”

The comments piqued my curiosity and spurred me to check things out for myself. My first visit was in the summer for the Kawase Matsuri, where troops of men carry an elaborate mikoshi on their shoulders into the river. I returned to dig deeper into the mystery that is Chichibu last autumn and again to witness the spectacular Yo Matsuri last month.



Every year, thousands of people descend on Chichibu for Yo Matsuri; they come to see the giant illuminated floats and fireworks displays. Hanae and I arrived on the first day of the festival, for a scaled-back version of the parade enjoyed predominantly by the town’s inhabitants. It was a jubilantly clear afternoon, and, after depositing our bags at Fuu-chan’s, we were treated to some of the most gracious hospitality I’ve ever experienced. At one time, walking into a stranger’s home and receiving food and drink was considered normal, but it’s a custom that’s vanished from most of the developed world. It’s crazy to see that it still exists in a place just an hour outside of Tokyo. From noon onwards, we were invited to toast with cups of sake and offered plates of homemade pickles, savory Japanese crepes, sweet tofu pouches stuffed with rice, and steaming bowls of kenchin-jiru with udon noodles.



The next day, I was on a mission to have lunch at Koike a soba shop I had been dying to try since my first trip to Chichibu. Every other time I’d been there, the restaurant had been closed, but this time I lucked out. We were seated right away, and, after a little deliberation, I settled on the ten-zaru soba. My expectations were high, but Koike did not disappoint. The homemade noodles were firm to the bite and springy, while the tempura -- a medley of fat shiitake mushrooms, tender broccoli florets, slender green beans, bracingly bitter fukinoto butterbur buds, and plump shrimp tails -- was light and delicately crisp. To accompany these tasty fried morsels, I chose a fruity but substantial Junmai Ginjo Genshu from Chichibu Nishiki. The sake had a sweet, melon-pear impact that melted into a round, ricey finish; to my surprise, it paired particularly well with the broccoli. I promised myself that next time I would try the set of three kinds of soba.



We were slightly less lucky with the weather, however. Although the first day had been gorgeous, heavy rain threatened to cancel the whole event. But the people of Chichibu pressed on with astounding determination despite the storm, and we watched nervously as teams of men and women wearing only thin hapi coats maneuvered the lumbering floats around corners and under electrical wires. In the end, the rain lightened up enough to allow us to glimpse some of the magnificent fireworks, but by the time we'd boarded our train back to Tokyo, we were soaked.

"I wish we could have stayed to see the climax of the parade," Hanae sighed.

"Me, too, but it's freezing," I shivered in my seat.

We turned our heads and looked at each other.

"Well, there's always next year."

Barrel Fever

In late November, I found myself frantically searching for a bottle of barrel-aged taruzake. I checked several stores and was met with the same answer: Try back at the end of December. After failing five times, I managed to get my hands on the last bottle of Doukan Taruzake from Shiga prefecture that had been hiding at the back of the refrigerator in my local sake shop. It had no label because the sake had arrived in a large wooden cask and the staff had bottled it themselves.

“You’re lucky,” said the clerk, an elderly lady with thin wire-rimmed glasses and sly, sleepy eyes. “All the taruzake’s gone by now. You should…”

“I know,” I interrupted. “Try back at the end of December.”

Those familiar with taruzake, the pungent cedar-laced brew that often divides people neatly into love-it-or-hate-it camps, may wonder why I’d gone to all the trouble. Ordinarily, I would never go out of my way for the stuff, but I needed a bottle to serve at a Taste of Culture program on osechi-ryori with Elizabeth Andoh. Osechi-ryori refers to the range of intense and frequently cloying foods -- sticky-sweet black beans, candied fish, chestnuts mashed with sweet potatoes and sugar -- traditionally eaten during the New Year holiday, dishes so heavily seasoned you can keep them unrefrigerated for a week or more. Most sake wouldn’t stand a chance against the flavors of osechi, but taruzake is a force to be reckoned with in its own right. Besides, it’s the thing to drink at New Year’s.

I’m not exactly certain how taruzake came to be associated with New Year’s, but I assume that it has something to do with the religious significance attached to nihonshu since early times, and the fact that the sake used for offerings used to come in wooden barrels. In preparation for o-shogatsu, giant casks full of sake are still delivered to shrines all over Japan and stacked near the entrance in wall-like formation, like speakers at a rock festival. That sake is intended for the gods alone, while mortals can either special-order the sake in small barrels, or pick up a bottle from their local shop.

Back in the day, all sake was taruzake. It had been brewed and later stored in wooden tanks for centuries before the invention of enamel-lined metal. Naturally, the wood imparted a strong aroma and flavor to the sake. As technology progressed and breweries began to switch to stainless steel tanks beginning in 1923, more attention was devoted to creating sake with a more sophisticated flavor. Taruzake is hardly subtle; where other sakes suggest and insinuate, taruzake proclaims. Vociferously.

It’s not that I dislike taruzake. In fact, I think it can be charmingly refreshing if you’re in the right mood, kind of like Retsina with less of a bite. It’s a fun departure from the norm, a taste of nostalgia for a time not our own. It is, however, far less popular than other varieties of sake, which explains why it can be difficult to find at stores after New Year’s (although some old-school izakayas sell it all the time).

On the afternoon of the 1st, JP and I honored tradition and toasted to 2010 with a small bottle of Bukou Masumune Taruzake, a dry but rich honjozo heavily scented with the astringent aroma of fresh pine. As far as taruzake goes, it was pretty good, but I must confess that I much prefer the brewery’s other products. The label reads, “Chichibu jizake (local sake),” and that’s no exaggeration -- over 90% of the sake produced at Bukou Masumune never makes it out of Chichibu, which is unfortunate. Their sake is full-bodied and chewy, with a marvelous depth of flavor. The brewery is located right in the middle of town, and you can sample some of their sakes for free.

If you still haven’t had your New Year’s sip of taruzake, there’s still plenty of time. The bottles are on display everywhere right now, from specialty sake shops to grocery stores. Just make sure you don’t wait til November.