Untangling My Chopsticks (15 page)

Kyle discreetly slid open the tearoom panel to check on the guests' progress. “They're ready for the yakimono,” he whispered.

“We're ready for them,” Stephen said, handing Kyle the pile of smoky succulent mushroom caps. Each guest would take one from the communal dish.

Very often during a tea kaiseki, the tea master decides to serve several more dishes beyond the core meal. If guests request more sake, for example, the host has ready a dish to accompany it. Usually called the
shiizakana,
meaning “insisting fish,” it is almost always seafood because that is considered sake's tastiest companion. In keeping with the Zen temple tenet of letting nothing go to waste, any ingredients left over from preparing a tea kaiseki would often be fashioned into a dish called the
azukebachi
(literally, “entrusted bowl”), so named because it is left in the tearoom with the guests, so they can serve themselves.

Because there were chrysanthemum leaves left over from our turkey wanmori, Stephen decided to serve them as an azukebachi. So we microwaved the bitter greens until tender, chopped them into bite-size pieces, and then dressed them with a syrup of boiled-down sake and soy sauce and crushed pine nuts.

Since it is tea kaiseki protocol for guests to request more sake, we had ready a very small portion of the “insisting fish” dish, creamy lobes of sea urchin livened with a puckery blend of lemon juice, soy sauce, and grated horseradish and garnished with a topknot of shredded nori. I wondered how the guests would leave Stephen's teahouse “just a little bit hungry” given all this food.

“You must remember,” emphasized Stephen, “each course consists of literally one or two bites.”

Before my black bean skewers and salted cuttlefish went out on the cedar tray, each guest received a chopstick wash. Stephen ladled some kelp broth into a lacquer container shaped like a tall lidded custard cup. He added some hot water to dilute it and a drop of Kyoto-style soy, lighter in color than regular soy but saltier in taste and tinged with sweet sake, which is added during the aging process. Following his instructions, I tied together three stems of
mitsuba
(Japanese wild chervil) and dropped them into the broth.

“That,” said Stephen, pointing to the knot, “means, ‘Come back again.’ ” For those who knew the language of Japanese food, this small gesture would please them. For those who didn't, it was simply a pretty crunch of green.

Next came the cedar tray holding cuttlefish and black bean skewers. Sake always accompanies this course because it mimics a Shinto ritual called a
naorai.
At a naorai, the cedar tray is filled with food and offered to the deities, along with the rice wine. The followers then consume the food and drink in order to share in
the divinity. The idea for using the cedar tray at a tea kaiseki has been attributed to Rikyu, who decided to place some tidbits on the Shinto tray to elevate his tea guests to the status of gods.

Since sake is considered the essence of rice, it is, therefore, the nectar of the gods. To add deeper meaning to the ritual, David would drink sake with each one of his guests, zigzagging his way down the line in a special choreographed manner. This is the only time during a tea kaiseki when the host shares anything with his guests.

While the guests enjoyed the cedar tray of goodies and sipped their rice wine with David, Brad began assembling various kinds of pickles. Called
konomono
(literally, “a thing for incense”), they got their name back in the tenth century when incense-sniffing contests were a popular game among the nobility. When the contestants felt their sense of smell was becoming dull, they would eat an astringent pickle to clear their nasal passages. At a tea kaiseki, the pickles serve a similar purpose; they cleanse the palate for the tea to come.

For the pickle course, Stephen had salted and pressed some chopped red, white, and green cabbage. Brad formed it into a small heap (about the size of a boiled egg) and placed it on a jade-colored stoneware communal dish. But instead of just dumping the cabbage in the center of the dish, he arranged it slightly off center, along with a few other pickled vegetables to create a pleasing visual. Irregularity of space adds rhythm and excitement.

The last course would consist of the scorched remains of the cooked rice that we were supposed to mix with lightly salted water. But here we encountered one of the many problems that threaten to destroy the integrity of a traditional tea kaiseki in today's world: technology. Stephen had made the rice in his elec
tric rice cooker, which left no brittle cap of rice at the bottom of the cooking pot to mix with lightly salted water. So we had two options: one, get out a skillet and do some fast dry-frying to render the rice “scorched”; or simply fill the special black lacquer rice container with the dense remains of the rice cooker. Stephen chose the latter and out went the rice. The tea kaiseki was over.

As is customary, David would begin the formal tea ceremony by serving a moist sweet, after which the guests would leave the tearoom to rinse their mouths with water drawn from the stone basin in the garden. Several minutes later, they would return to the tearoom for the ceremonial tea. If there had been no tea kaiseki, the guests would have arrived, eaten their sweets, and waited for the tea master to prepare their tea.

Since the guests had eaten a tea kaiseki meal, however, we set about arranging the sweets, which, as Stephen predicted, were gorgeous. The grated yam balls had transmuted into ivory truffle-like puffs, which we placed on camellia leaves and arranged in various tiers of a stacking black lacquer serving box.

While the guests savored the sweets, we began washing dishes. We washed more dishes while David whipped and served the thick green tea. We continued washing dishes while the guests ate a dry sweet and sipped a bowl of thin green tea. By the time the last guest had tiptoed out of the garden and back toward home, we were wiping dry the last of the wanmori bowls and lids.

It was almost 6:30 when David stepped into the kitchen to help himself to some of the leftovers. Tea masters rarely, if ever, eat with their guests at a tea kaiseki because they want to concentrate fully on serving their guests. To a Westerner, this sounds odd. Imagine inviting four people over for a special dinner and spending the entire evening in the kitchen. (Granted, some cooks feel that way at the end of an ambitious dinner party.)

Most tea masters do not indulge because they see themselves as a master of ceremonies, or high priest presiding over the happiness and comfort of their guests. The exception, of course, is when the tea master shares the zigzag sake ritual during the has-sun. (To avoid getting drunk, David had wolfed down a peanut butter sandwich shortly before the guests arrived.)

So between mouthfuls of leftover grilled mushrooms, rice, and chrysanthemum greens, David rightfully praised Stephen for the extraordinary tea kaiseki he had just put on. It had been an amazing display of culinary workmanship. Kyle and Brad also picked at some of the food, while I finished wiping the counters and cleaning the sink. Shortly before 7:00, I hooked the dishrag over the handle of the fridge and went to retrieve my coat.

“Are you sure you don't want to come with us to the sento?” asked Stephen, now slumped against the kitchen wall. “It's really amazing inside.”

I certainly needed a bath, but gave a weary shake of my head. Maybe next time. I wound the red scarf around my neck and thanked Stephen and David for letting me help. It had been an incredible day, a day that had surpassed my greatest hopes. History, art, nature, food, and religion had all combined into a complicated aesthetic that defied comparison to anything I had ever experienced, even at Mushanokoji. David had practiced an ancient Chinese ritual that Kyoto's Zen monks had synthesized with the Japanese culture. He had placed a scroll and then a flower arrangement in an area of the tearoom modeled after the same type of alcove found in Buddhist temples. The flowers, arranged in a loose natural manner (compared to the highly stylized arrangements of ikebana) would be tossed out after the tea ceremony to represent the ephemerality of life. David had chosen specific tea utensils and serving pieces appropriate to the winter
weather and formality of the occasion. The meal—a sumptuous sequence of nuanced flavors, textures, and visual artistry—glori-fied the bounty of nature. Sprinkled throughout the whole event were layers of symbolism that reinforced tradition, enshrined various aspects of the Japanese culture, and celebrated the very nature of temporal existence. I could not have imagined a more wonderful meal conceived, cooked, and enjoyed on so many levels than the one we had created that day. So instead of heading off to the public bath to wash it all off, I wanted to savor it again on the moonlit walk home.

8.

riends had warned me Japan would be expensive, and living in Kyoto had proved to be so. In addition to needing money to cover the cost of rent, food, and Japanese language classes, I had several unexpected purchases, including a small electric heater for my room at the Guesthouse, which I bought after catching a vicious cold that held me hostage to my futon for several days. I also needed money for tea kaiseki classes.

The natural solution was to teach. Hundreds of Japanese schools and vocational colleges needed “native English speakers” to improve the accents and language skills of their students. Businesses wanted teachers to work on their employees' diction and understanding of the American business culture. Housewives were eager to study English for the social cachet, as well as for those
“emergency” moments when they might be asked to dine with one of their husband's Western business clients.

Through word of mouth and interviewing I managed to secure several teaching positions. This was astounding when I thought about it, considering the importance of education in Japan and the fact I had never taught. But since I had the requisite “professional attitude,” “university degree,” and “enthusiastic and reliable” demeanor, that is how I found myself teaching English to high school students at The New School in downtown Kyoto; businessmen at the Henkel Hakusai chemical company in Osaka; two housewives at a coffee shop every Tuesday morning; and five- and six-year-olds at Tomiko's school, English Fun World. Without a doubt, those children were my most challenging students, as evidenced by my first day.

“Ooooooo-eee—” squealed five-year-old Saki, bouncing around the English Fun World classroom like a human pogo stick. Her pigtails snapped back and forth as she chased and tagged several boys and girls, who had just arrived for their first conversational English class. Several small bowed legs, many patched with Hello Kitty Band-Aids, darted around the two wooden benches—one behind the other—facing a plastic wipe board.

“Sensei, sensei,” wailed one little boy, hoping to be rescued from Saki's grip on his Snoopy backpack.

“Shhhhhh,” I said, putting my index finger to my lips. I glanced at the clock hanging on the pink-and-white-flowered wall. It read 3:00. Class would last for one hour.

“Okay, okay, everybody, let's sit down,” I said, motioning the children over to the wooden benches. Several small heads spun
around, curious to see who was uttering these strange sounds. Japanese jabber flew around the room, while I gently guided eight squirming bodies to seats. A straggler walked in, deposited his Ninja Turtle backpack on the floor, and squeezed onto the bench. When the commotion had finally died down, I drew myself up to my full height and introduced myself.

“I am teacher Victoria,” I announced. Fits of giggling ensued. I had gone to some trouble to look professorial in my black wool business skirt, black-and-earth-toned sweater, and black stockings. But I felt like a clown. My feet were swimming in the powder pink terry scuffs that Tomiko had insisted I wear “to avoid scratching up the parquet,” she had said, handing them to me at the door.

I wrote my name on the wipe board with magic marker in big blue letters. “VIC-TOR-IA.” I said it again slowly, tapping my chest.

“Bi-cu-to-ria,” repeated Saki. She threw her head back in laughter, exposing a small strip of pink gum where her two front teeth were missing. Several tiny bodies hunched over and started shaking. After I had shushed most of the chatter, I pointed out that “Victoria” is spelled with a
V
not a
B
. I placed my front teeth over my bottom lip and made the
V
sound several times. This was an important distinction to make because the Japanese not only have no
V
in their language, they have no
L
sound either.