Untangling My Chopsticks (25 page)

In the center of each tray, we placed a small welcome dish.

It was a sort of pâté of abalone liver lightened with dashi. Rare and unusual foods seldom appear at a tea kaiseki because they belie the meal's “simple” nature and might unnerve the guests if they had never eaten them before. Nevertheless, each person received a teaspoon of the pâté, which I placed on a spicy, mint-like
shiso
leaf and garnished with nori filaments.

After wiping dry the Rikyu-bashi chopsticks, I laid them along the bottom edge of each tray. Stephen then signaled to Joyce that we were ready.

In traditional Japanese fashion, Joyce knelt with the first tray in front of her knees before partially sliding open the fusuma, which separated the tearoom from the kitchen. Joyce wasn't positioned to face the guests, but instead knelt with her right shoulder to the panel, so close to me I could touch her. After she pulled open the sliding door, she rose, stepped inside, and then sank down again onto her knees, whereupon she reached over to her left for the tray, slid it in front of her knees, then pushed the panel shut. Although I couldn't see what happened next, I knew from talking with Stephen and David that Joyce would stand up with the tray in one swift movement and carry it to David. He, in turn, would crumple to bent knees and slowly hand the tray to the principal guest, who would inch toward David to receive it with both hands.

When all the trays had been delivered in this manner, Stephen and I readied the wanmori, or climactic dish. In a large black lacquer bowl decorated with graceful gold brushwork I placed a dragon ball, a deep-fried round of juicy tofu stuffed with crunchy chopped carrots and lotus root. Stephen had purchased the golden balls at Nishiki market; we had simply placed them in his steamer to reheat them for the wanmori. He twirled hot-cooked soba around chopsticks to create a tight coil, then
tucked the nutty noodle nests next to each dragon ball. I ladled a small amount of dashi over the noodles, after which Stephen grated a juicy white daikon radish over each bowl to resemble winter slush.

One of the many delights of an “evening talk” tea is the tease of hot and cold dishes, both visually and in terms of temperature. This interplay symbolizes the frigid weather outside in contrast to the cozy warmth of the tearoom.

Therefore, having just served a hot dish, Stephen and I prepared an “extra” offering that was light and cold. It was a refreshing snarl of slivered red carrot and chopped daikon tossed with vinegar, soy sauce, and water. When the guests had finished that, for contrast we grilled unctuous teriyaki-marinated butterfish for the yakimono and sprinkled it with tongue-numbing sansho. “Put five small pieces on the dish,” instructed Stephen, as I divided up the fillet.

Food arrangement in Japan involves a multiplicity of factors beyond mere composition, including the auspiciousness of certain numbers. For some Japanese, serving one slice of any food is bad luck because
hitokire
(one piece) can also mean “kill someone.” Four pieces are also avoided because
shi
(four) can also mean “death.”

On the other hand, even numbers are yin, or dark and negative, while odd numbers are yang, or light and positive. As a result, most people tend to serve foods in clusters of odd numbers, such as three, five, or seven.

So based on Stephen's recommendation, I placed five pieces of the grilled butterfish on a single dish. But I didn't just spread them out on the plate. I overlapped them in the “piled-up” style, so that the burnished morsels would retain their heat and, when one piece was removed, the whole stack would not collapse.

Joyce delivered the fish along with a container of rice for extra helpings. Rice appears several times during a tea kaiseki. And each time it does the texture changes slightly. When it initially appears on the first tray, the grains are wet and soft because they have been skimmed off the top of the pot. The second time rice shows up it tastes more firm. By the third serving, after the grilled dish, the texture has become quite sticky. The final offering is the crusty shards stuck to the bottom of the pot that are served in warm salted water.

At this particular tea kaiseki, however, the grilled fish was the last course. The guests received no chopstick wash, no tray with tidbits from the mountains and ocean, no extra dish to go with more sake, no additional offering to use up leftover ingredients, no pickles, and no crusty brown rice bits mixed with salted warm water. The tea kaiseki was over.

David, who was now outside the tearoom, hovered by the sliding panel with one ear tipped toward his guests. Approximately five minutes later all chatter ceased. Suddenly, there was a
clack!

In traditional tea kaiseki fashion, the guests had dropped their chopsticks on their lacquer trays in one synchronized movement to signal they were done. It was a subtle moment unbroken by the coarse call of human voices.

David gently slid open the panel to tell his guests he hoped they had enjoyed the modest meal. They responded with a soft chorus of “
Gochiso sama deshita
(Thank you for your hospitality).”

While Joyce cleared the trays, David set the charcoal in the brazier. All the guests spoke English, because I overheard them asking David all kinds of questions, such as: Where did the teakettle come from? Who made the incense container? Those were the kinds of set questions guests are supposed to ask the tea master at that point in a chaji. Sometimes I wondered if people
ever strayed from their script. (“Say, David, how was your trip to Tokyo?” “Oh, fine, thanks for asking.”)

I suspect the reason for limiting conversational topics in the tearoom is to set the tone for the ceremonial tea to come. After all, when you're headed on the path to nirvana, why take a detour to Tokyo or elsewhere?

Back in the kitchen, Stephen, Joyce, and I began to arrange the sweets on small plates. In keeping with the traditional kinds of confections fabricated in the fifteenth century, each guest received a whole dried persimmon, a chestnut, and a shiny shiitake mushroom cap that had been “candied” in a braising mixture of soy, mirin, and sake. None of these treats contained refined sugar because it wasn't widely used in tea sweets until after the first Portuguese trading ships came to Japan in 1543.

After the guests had quietly eaten their sweets, David invited them outside for some brisk air and a stretch. This interlude would give David time to ready the tearoom before making the ceremonial bowls of tea. He would roll up the scroll and replace it with an arrangement of flowers in order to honor the Shinto belief that all living things manifest a divine spirit. He would also light incense to evoke the fragrance of Buddha's paradise. Time out of the tearoom would additionally allow the guests to reconnect with nature, thus further purging themselves of any material concerns.

The guests spoke in hushed tones in the garden, since listening is a delight and necessity in tea. Hearing the rustle of the wind through the trees is a highly pleasurable experience; so is the soft scratching of the tea master's broom as he sweeps clean the tatami. These sounds elicit a flow of emotions that go beyond the actual sound itself. To hear the leaves flutter suggests an awareness of the breeze. Where has it come from? Where will it go? Whose cheek has it brushed? Is it the same wind Sen no Rikyu heard?

The sweeping of the broom conveys a sense of purity. This religious symbolism would be repeated during the tea ceremony when David purified the tea bowl and wiped the tea utensils with a special cloth.

When David was ready to receive his guests, he gently tapped a bell, just the way a Zen master does to call the monks to meditation. The idea of not speaking is important in tea. Often, the guests and host use little signs and noises to express themselves. The gentle ring told the guests it was time to leave the chill of winter behind and return to the cozy warmth of the tearoom. In a way, the tea master is a kind of Zen priest facilitating his guests' journey to enlightenment. Had it been sunny out, David would have hit a gong, since its low yin tone complements the bright yang of day.

While David made thick tea and then thin tea for his guests, we cleaned up, whispering and washing as quietly as possible to avoid being heard through the panel.

Around 9:30, the swish of fabric and scuff of tabi on the tatami indicated that the guests were getting up. I could hear them softly thanking David for the incredible evening in genuine tones of appreciation. Thinking about it, the gathering must have been sublime. How could it not have been? Imagine tiptoeing off into the woods to gather in a small beautiful room with an intimate group of friends, then sharing an exquisite meal and a bowl of tea that holds the promise of transcendence.

Since it was late, I said my good-byes and pedaled home. Around 10:30, I pulled into Tomiko and Yasu's driveway, my legs still vibrating from the ride. The light in their family room shone out through the metal blinds, so I knew they were up.

Still chilled, I kept on my fleece jacket and sat with them in
the family room eating a cold rice ball that I had picked up from a nearby 7-Eleven store. It was a triangle of sushi stuffed with sweet pickled gourd and wrapped in nori. I had grabbed it unknowingly from the store's many offerings, since I still couldn't read much kanji. Tomiko made coarse green tea to warm everyone up and pulled out a box of pine nut cookies from her snack cupboard. As we sipped, and nibbled, and talked about everyone's day, we had our own tea ceremony of sorts, which became the crowning touch to an extraordinary birthday.

The next day I continued my birthday celebration in a more raucous style. Tomiko had suggested I invite several friends from the Guesthouse for a “quiet” birthday dinner. So earlier that week I had called Jocelyn and Eric and a few others, hoping to convince perhaps five or six people to stop by. Instead, twenty people showed up bearing presents and eager to party to a cassette tape of mixed tunes my younger sister had made me for Christmas.

“What a feeeeling!”
screamed Irene Cara from
Flashdance,
as Eric grabbed Jocelyn's hand. They bumped and twirled in the family room. Others joined in as Tomiko danced off to the kitchen to fetch a small griddle. Elbows knocked and hands snatched savory rice-stuffed tofu pouches I had re-created from tea kaiseki class.

“C'mon, stand up and dance,”
urged Opus. Beer bottles popped. Soon wheat noodles, onions, carrots, and shredded cabbage were sizzling away on the hot metal for
yakisoba.
I set down a platter of scattered sushi and Tomiko poured oyster and beef okonomiyaki batter onto the griddle. She shook her hips and smiled at Yasu, who lit a cigarette.

“Every little thing she does is magic,”
howled the Police, as we danced, ate, drank, and danced some more.

Around 1:00 in the morning, after the last of the guests had tootled off, I heard Tomiko groan in the back room. “I don't believe it,” she said, coming into the kitchen carrying a shiny white box. “I forgot the cake.” She looked crestfallen.

So we decided to have it ourselves with some sparkling wine that someone had brought. While Yasu poured the bubbly, Tomiko pushed pink candles into the velvety chocolate square decorated with fat ganache roses. I made a wish and blew out the candles, then cut through the cocoa-dusted frosting and into the rum-soaked center to slide out three pieces. They came from the portion of the cake where Tomiko and Yasu had asked the baker to write “Happy Birthday Victoria,” which they sang to me.

Wakame seaweed is available in both fresh and dried forms. Look for the dried slivered version that does not include the tough spine. In Japan, wakame often enriches miso soup and also makes a tasty salad tossed with a sprightly vinegar dressing.

• ¼ cup dried slivered wakame
  

• 3½ cups dashi (
  page 48
  )
  

• 3 tablespoons red miso
  

• 2 tablespoons sweet white miso (shiro miso)
  

• ½ pound silken tofu, drained and cubed
  

• 1 scallion, trimmed and thinly sliced
  

1. Place the wakame in a bowl and cover with hot tap water. Let soak until softened, about 10 minutes. Drain and set aside.
   

2. Bring the dashi to a simmer in a medium saucepan. Transfer about a cup of it to a medium bowl. Whisk in the red and white miso and then transfer the mixture back to the dashi in the saucepan. (This prevents the soup from having any lumps of miso.) Add the wakame and tofu and bring the mixture to a simmer. Divide the soup among four bowls and garnish with scallions.
   

Makes 4 servings