Untangling My Chopsticks (24 page)

First, John wrote to tell me his grandmother had died. Then a harrowing letter arrived from my best friend, Margaret, describing how she had been assaulted in the entryway of her Boston condominium on Christmas Eve.

Even Tomiko seemed sluggish and down. She had taken to sleeping longer in the morning and napping on a small electric rug in the family room off the kitchen. Often after returning
home from teaching, I would find her curled up on the floor in the dark. “Maybe she's pregnant,” my mother wrote.

When I called Stephen shortly after New Year's to wish him well, he had bad news of his own: he had suffered a stroke.

“It was all the booze and cigaress,” he said with a slur.

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked, reeling with disbelief. He was only thirty-nine.

“Nah, I'll be fine. I have trouvvle walking, but I have a cane. Juss have to do some physical therapy.”

“Are you going to tea kaiseki class this Saturday?” I doubted he would but still wanted to ask.

“Yeah, I think so. Less meet at the café near school. If I don't show up after thirty minutes, juss go to class.”

Stephen did, indeed, show up. We met beforehand to discuss the recipes that he, once again, had translated. He explained that since it was January, everything we would make would be red and white, the two congratulatory colors in Japan. I forgot to ask why.

Sure enough, we added crimson azuki beans to the miso soup. The marinated scallop dish received a red carrot and grated radish garnish. The wanmori was embellished with pink and white shrimp. The chopstick wash was enhanced with ivory pine nuts and rose pickled plum. Even the “insisting dish” conveyed best wishes through thin slices of coral-colored smoked salmon brightened with lemon juice and spicy scarlet sprouts.

After class, I assisted Stephen with some of his errands, since he still used a cane to walk and had no strength in one arm. We stopped by the dry cleaners to pick up David's kimonos, the corner market for some dishwashing liquid and Diet Cokes, and finally the hardware store for a new broom that wouldn't catch on the fine weave of the tatami in their tearoom. Just as I was getting ready to head home, Stephen mentioned that he and David had
decided to throw another
chaji
(a kaiseki meal followed by a formal tea ceremony).

“You're welcome to help,” he said, leaning on his cane in his sitting room. “Only this time you can show up at a more civilized hour.” He wiped his nose, sighed, and dropped into a chair.

“Come by around ten. The chaji won't begin till early evening.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. When I asked him the date, he replied it was scheduled for the next Saturday, my birthday. “That okay?” he asked, his eyes opening.

I smiled and nodded. Then told him to take care of himself, and wished him farewell.

It was to be a fifteenth-century-style Zen Tea kaiseki, considered the precursor of Rikyu's modest style, which meant the meal would be composed of one soup and two side dishes.

Stephen was already working in the kitchen when I called from the outside gate. A woman named Joyce, who was studying tea, came out to let me in.

Stephen still appeared pale and his face looked drawn. His arm quivered and the limp made it difficult to get around the kitchen. Yet, despite his limitations, he had managed to pick up all the ingredients for the chaji, as well as buy lunch for everyone.

For the next several hours, Joyce and I slivered vegetables and helped Stephen prepare the sweets. We pulled out all the tea kaiseki serving dishes and utensils and arranged them on the tatami in the order we planned to use them.

Choosing appropriate wares for a tea kaiseki requires knowing about their various characteristics and paying attention to the season at hand. Evoking a sense of warmth in winter months and
coolness in the summer months is essential. So at a July tea kaiseki, for example, raw fish often arrives on a bed of cracked ice in a glass or chilled metal dish. In January it would likely show up in a stoneware vessel glazed in dark earthy tones.

But variety is also important, which is why wood, lacquer, porcelain, glass, metal, and stoneware are used throughout the meal. Not only do they add visual appeal but a tactile one as well, since soup is drunk directly from lacquer bowls, rice bowls are cradled in the palm, and serving receptacles and utensils are picked up, passed, and admired.

The Japanese also know that unrelieved simplicity or ornamentation becomes tedious. That is why, for example, after a succession of black lacquer and plain stoneware, a striking red sake bottle embellished with flowers will arrive. It provides a refreshing contrast and, because it is unexpected, makes a lasting impression.

“I'm going to get lunch,” announced Stephen, hobbling outside to retrieve three cardboard bento boxes of sushi he'd left chilling on the back doorstep. I jumped up to help, but he waved me away. “It's part of my therapy.” He returned balancing the sushi boxes in the crook of his good arm. I filled three water glasses and carried them over to where Stephen and Joyce were sitting on the tatami counter area inside the kitchen.

“You guys know what
sushi
means, don't you?” asked Stephen, lifting off the lid of his bento box. I looked at Joyce.

“Sure,” she said, putting down her water glass. “Fish on vinegared rice.”

“Wrong,” said Stephen, popping a shrimp in his mouth. “
Sushi
means ‘vinegared rice.’
Nigiri zushi
is the correct term because the verb
nigiru
means ‘to grasp, or hold tight,’ as in a rice ball, and the Japanese spell and pronounce sushi with a
z.
So nigiri zushi means ‘stuff over vinegared rice that you can grasp.’ Seafood is
the most popular topping, although there are others, like omelet and
natto.
”

I loved natto. Most foreigners despise the slippery brown fermented soybeans, saying they smell like stale sweat socks. But when you mix the beans with raw egg and scallions and spoon them over hot sticky rice, they taste like a combination of syrupy espresso and a ripe runny cheese.

“The second style is maki zushi,” said Stephen, dipping his tuna into soy. “
Maki
means ‘to roll’ and this style of finger-food is made by spreading vinegared rice over nori, filling it with stuff, and then rolling it up and cutting it into rolls. If you ask for a hand roll, then you get a cone of nori packed with all kinds of good stuff.” His eyes sparkled with excitement.

“And you both know the pickled ginger is to cleanse your palate between different bites of fish, right?” We both nodded.

“And you know never to add wasabi to soy when eating sushi?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, quickly swallowing a huge slab of yellowtail.

“You only add wasabi to soy when you're eating sashimi,” said Stephen, “because the chef has already smeared wasabi over the rice for nigiri zushi or maki rolls.”

“Then why does the chef give you a cone of wasabi when you order sushi?” asked Joyce.

“It's like putting salt and pepper shakers on the table at a fancy dinner party,” answered Stephen. “It's a formality.”

“And if you do add wasabi to your soy when eating sushi—” I started to ask.

“The chef thinks you're shit,” butted in Stephen, chuckling. “That's because he's seasoned your food perfectly, and you're telling him otherwise.”

I cringed, thinking of all the sushi chefs I had insulted over the years.

“And,” said Stephen, “when you go to a zushi bar, if you're going to drink sake, order it before dinner. Because sake is based on rice and the Japanese consider drinking it with sushi to be redundant.” He wiped a dribble of water from his chin with his shirtsleeve.

“Kind of like ordering a side of bread to go with your sandwich?” asked Joyce.

“Uh-huh,” said Stephen, eating a pinch of pickled ginger.

After lunch we went out for coffee at a nearby café, since David was running errands and would not return for several more hours. Then the three of us trooped back to Stephen's house to rest.

Around 5:30, Stephen and I went into the kitchen to prepare the final sauces and garnishes, while Joyce changed into a majestic ice-blue kimono embellished with snow-white pine swags. Since it had begun to turn dark, David, now back, placed candlelit lanterns along the stone path.

The particular type of tea ceremony that Stephen and David were hosting goes by the name Yobanashi, or “evening talk.” It is usually held in winter. To warm up the guests and stimulate conversation, Stephen filled four small mugs with hot
amazake,
a thick fermented rice drink made with the fermenting agent koji. For a nip of heat, he grated fresh ginger into each cup.

“Here,” said Stephen, passing me an extra mug. I had first tasted amazake at a teahouse in Nara with Tomiko and her mother the day after New Year's. It was creamy and sweet and tinged with the flavor of sake. Stephen's version was like sipping a warm ginger frappé.

We prepared the first tray, beginning with the miso soup.

When properly made, miso soup for a tea kaiseki can be likened to a fine wine. The first taste strikes the palate with a burst of flavor, followed by deeper savory notes. It is the “finish” that matters. The chef wants the flavor reverberations to be so hauntingly delicious, the guests will yearn for more. Seconds are almost always served.

The secret to creating such a tantalizing flavor lies in blending together different kinds of miso. In winter, for example, a small amount of savory red miso combines with the rich white variety. As the days become warmer, more and more red miso is incorporated to balance the heavy sweetness of the white. At the height of summer, only salty varieties are used to create the lightest possible lingering sensation.

To give his soup depth, Stephen stirred red and white miso together before smearing it over the flattened underside of a wooden pot lid. He held the cap of miso over a gas flame, moving the lid in circles, until the soybean paste bubbled and charred all over. He kept scraping and turning the blistered paste with a knife until it became thick and concentrated, then whisked it into a pot of heated dashi. To achieve a satiny consistency, he poured the soup through a small woven bamboo sieve several times before ladling it into the bowls.

Miso soup served at a tea kaiseki fills roughly one third of the bowl, not two thirds, as in restaurants. The amount is supposed to equal three sips, which are supposed to be interspersed with bites of rice. Proper form in the tearoom calls for guests to take one bite of rice, a sip of soup, more rice, then more soup, until the soup is gone (but never the rice, to avoid having the host feel obliged to serve more). If guests request a second bowl of miso soup, they receive double the amount of the first serving, approximately six sips.

Unlike the miso soup served in restaurants, however, which contains lots of little goodies, like seaweed and diced tofu, the miso soup served at a tea kaiseki usually features one central ingredient that breaks the soup's surface. Depending upon the season, you might encounter a square of bean curd, a ball of wheat gluten, or a wheel of daikon radish simmered in dashi until butterscotch sweet. These central ingredients are usually cooked separately before being placed in the soup bowl and crowned with a seasonal garnish, such as fall chestnut, peppery spring shoot, or fragrant summer herb.

Stephen chose spinach-like greens as his focal point, which he blanched in water, squeezed dry, and mounded into the center of each bowl. He carefully ladled the miso soup around the greens and garnished them with a blob of mustard that he pushed off the tip of a butter knife with his finger. When the guests opened the lid of the soup, they would stir the fiery condiment into the broth to add a charge of heat.

Although Japanese cooking aims to spotlight the natural flavors of ingredients, zesty accents often appear to provide contrast. A blast of pungent wasabi counterposes the oily richness of raw fish. A shake of spicy herbal sansho cuts through the fatty succulence of grilled eel. And a dab of stinging yellow mustard offsets the mild sweetness of boiled greens.

Joyce and I placed the matching black lacquer covers over the bowls and set them in the bottom right-hand corner of each tray. Black lacquer is favored in tea kaiseki for its ability to trap heat, as well as its elegant luster. The exception is when cinnabar lacquerware is used to serve vegetarian tea kaiseki, a carryover from the olden days when tea kaiseki featured vegetarian temple food in August to avoid the risk of meat and fish spoiling in the heat.

The cinnabar wares were chosen to mimic the everyday red lacquerware the monks use for their vegetarian temple food.

Stephen scooped the rice into the shape of the figure ? and placed it in the black bowl. He chose the linear shape because at David's tea school it represents
ichi,
meaning “one,” and refers to the number one place of honor rice holds in Japan. Aside from being a staple food, rice symbolizes life and all beginnings. Each tea school shapes its rice differently, however, in order to set itself apart. At Mushanokoji our tea kaiseki teacher, Sen Sumiko, told us to form the rice into a small ball, since the round shape represents a vestige of the
mosso,
the rounded implement used in Zen monasteries to measure out cooked rice.

Joyce and I placed the lacquer lids snugly over the rice bowls. One of the pleasures of removing the lid is to see the pearls of condensation that have gathered underneath; it evokes the purity of early morning dew.

At the top of each tray, Stephen placed the mukozuke, a small dish of sea bream sashimi tossed with light Kyoto-style soy sauce, a bit of dashi, and zesty yuzu juice. Unlike restaurant sashimi, which arrives with a separate saucer for wasabi and soy sauce, raw fish at a tea kaiseki comes seasoned in advance with a delicate dressing that harmonizes with the rest of the meal's subtle flavors. A bit of dashi or sake usually lightens the soy sauce, while a squirt of citrus adds brightness.

In keeping with the tea kaiseki philosophy of serving hot foods in heated dishes and cold fare in chilled ones, we had soaked the stoneware in cold water (and likewise had warmed the miso soup bowls in hot water). The wet ceramic would provide natural refreshment, like a rock at the beach dampened by waves.