Untangling My Chopsticks (12 page)

Stephen and I made our wanmori with duck. With a razor-sharp knife, I carved off excess fat from the plump maroon breast, then cut the meat into bite-size pieces that I dredged in potato starch. While Stephen made dashi from choice fish flakes and kelp, I chiseled a brilliant orange carrot into chewing gum–shaped rectangles. Stephen blanched fresh spinach leaves, then squeezed them into bundles, trimming them down to size to match the carrots. After that he grilled pounded rice dumplings (mochi) over the burner's flame until they blistered like campfire marshmallows.

Shortly before 3:00, we slipped the duck into simmering dashi and cooked it until the center turned ruby pink. Then, after placing a nugget of duck in a black lacquer bowl, we arranged a
bundle of spinach over the fowl, leaned a rectangle of carrot up against the spinach, tucked in the grilled mochi ball, and perched a tiny wedge of lemony yuzu zest over the greens. Steadying his hand, Stephen ladled a bit of amber dashi around our masterpiece. After making another bowl, we placed the covers snuggly in place to trap all the flavors. Finally, it was time to eat.

Or so I thought. I had anticipated slowly working our way through all ten courses, like guests at a tea ceremony. I glanced over at my classmates and saw one woman washing dishes.

“Here,” said Stephen, handing me a set of chopsticks. He picked up his wanmori. “Savor the fragrance.” He gently squeezed the lacquer rim of the bowl to loosen the cover. I did the same and a savory jet stream of duck, citron, and toasted mochi rushed up from the bowl. I sipped the limpid broth. It had a delicate gamy flavor underscored with soy, minerals, and cured fish. The duck tasted juicy and tender. The carrot had a treacly crunch, while the gooey mochi draped with soft spinach had a smoky sweetness.

Maybe I'll try one of those crepe-wrapped mackerel rolls, I mused, surveying our delicacies. All at once the metallic tear of foil ripped through the air. I looked up. The women had taken charge and were dividing up the goodies.
Wait a minute, guys, what are you doing?
I heard the suck of air being released from several plastic containers. Knives clattered in the sink and suddenly there was a rush of water.
This must be some kind of mean trick, no?
Pots clanged as they hit the sides of the metal sink. The cutting boards made a dull thump.
This was supposed to be dinner.
Aprons flew onto the counter and piled up in a heap. Clack! Clack! Clack! A stack of lacquer bowls joined them.

Then the storm was over. The dry counters gleamed. Slick cutting boards leaned against the metal poles and pots dripped
from the racks overhead. I finished drying our wanmori bowls and minutes later joined Stephen in the hall.

“Are you sure you don't want any of this?” he asked, waving good-bye to several classmates. “This is a lot of food.” His canvas tote bulged with foil-wrapped packages.

“That's okay,” I replied. “I don't think this stuff would go over too well at the Guesthouse.” I could just imagine: Oh, Eric, instead of your usual tuna salad on white, how about a lotus root sandwich filled with plum paste?

Stephen shrugged. “Well, David will be happy.” He pulled down the sleeves of his coat, first the left one and then the right, and picked up his bag.

I followed him outside, securing the tiny leather belt on my knapsack. The sun had disappeared behind the gray winter clouds, casting a sad pall over the afternoon. All those exquisite dishes filled with greetings of happiness and goodwill now lay wilting in Stephen's tote.

And yet, as I replayed the class in my head, a tingly flush of elation rose up inside of me, as if I had just sipped an extraordinary champagne. I had flirted with tea kaiseki and now felt giddy. The food had been fascinating, succulent, beautiful, and exotic. Just one taste and I was thirsting for more.

In Japanese markets you can find various grades of white miso (shiro miso). Spring for the pricier versions, which taste sweeter than the less expensive brands. In this recipe, you'll notice the difference.

• 12 large romaine lettuce leaves
  

• ¼ cup sweet white miso (shiro miso)
  

• 1 tablespoon mirin
  

• 12 slices smoked salmon, cut lengthwise in half
  

1. With a sharp knife, cut off the leafy green portion of each lettuce leaf (save for another use), so that you have twelve long stems. Cut each stem crosswise in half.
   

2. Whisk together the miso and mirin in a large bowl. Add the romaine stems and, using your fingers, gently toss to coat. Let the stems pickle for 10 minutes.
   

3. Remove the stems from the miso mixture and with a clean paper towel gently wipe off the miso. Wrap the salmon slices around each pickled stem, like rollmops, so that a portion of the lettuce stem sticks out from either side of the fish.
   

Makes 24 salmon-lettuce rolls

A crystal clear dashi-based soup filled with artfully arranged ingredients is one of the hallmarks of elegant Japanese cooking. Ideally, the soup is served in a bowl with a lid to lock in the fragrance of the citrus zest. Since dried mochi is what is most commonly available outside of Japan, that is the form called for in this recipe.

• 4 dried mochi cakes (about 2 ounces each)
  

• 1 medium carrot, peeled and trimmed
  

• 1 small bunch fresh spinach (about ½ pound)
  

• 4 cups dashi (
  page 48
  )
  

• 2 teaspoons soy sauce
  

• ¼ teaspoon coarse salt
  

• One 4-ounce boneless duck breast, skinned
  

• 2 tablespoons potato starch
  

• 4 tiny diamond-shaped pieces of yuzu or lemon zest (each one about the size of a peanut)
  

1. Using a pair ofkitchen tongs, hold each mochi cake over a medium flame until lightly charred all over. Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Add the charred mochi, turn off the heat, and let them soften (this will take about 5 minutes).
   

2. Slice the carrot crosswise in half. Using only the top half, slice the carrot into four 2-inch-long thin rectangles. (Set aside the remaining carrot for another use.) Blanch the carrot slices in a small pot of lightly salted water until crisp-tender, about a minute. Drain and set aside.
   

3. Bring a small amount oflightly salted water to a boil in a medium shallow saucepan. Add the spinach, cover, and cook over low heat until the leaves have collapsed and just wilted, 1 to 2 minutes. Drain, form the spinach into a fat bundle, and lightly roll in a clean tea towel to remove the excess water. Cut the spinach bundle into four 2-inch-long rounds.
   

4. Place 3 cups ofthe dashi in a medium saucepan. Add the soy sauce and salt and bring to a simmer. Keep warm over very low heat.
   

5. Bring the remaining 1 cup dashi to a boil in a small saucepan. Cut the duck meat along the bias into four pieces. Dredge each one in the potato starch, tapping off any excess. Add the duck to the dashi and cook over very low heat until just pink, about 5 minutes.
   

6. For each wanmori, place a morsel of duck in the center of a bowl. Add a mochi cake and a bundle of spinach. Lean a carrot rectangle up against the spinach, then garnish it with a tiny diamond of yuzu zest. Ladle the seasoned dashi around the ingredients and cover the bowl with a lid.
   

Makes 4 servings

7.

n unexpected stroke of luck came my way when Stephen called about a week after our first tea kaiseki class. He and his partner David were planning to host an afternoon kaiseki and tea ceremony at their home to celebrate the coming of winter and New Year's. If I was free, I was welcome to come by and see the whole thing from start to finish. “You can help me cook. David does the tea,” added Stephen.

In contrast to Stephen, David resembled a Zen monk. He had a buzz-cut helmet of gray hair and often dressed in gorgeous kimonos. He was a teacher at one of the three big Kyoto tea schools and his patient gentle demeanor suited him well to the quiet and deliberate world of tea, as did his sharp mind and knowledge of Asian history.

I told Stephen I would love to help him. What better way to
spend a Saturday? I could study Japanese at home in the morning and then swing by his place right after lunch. “What time should I show up?” I inquired.

“As early as you can,” he replied. “We have lots to do. I'll be up at six.”

The next morning my alarm went off at 5:30. As if embarking on some kind of culinary Outward Bound, I got dressed in the dark and headed downstairs with my knapsack, purple fleece jacket, red woolen scarf, and mittens. After a strong cup of coffee, I quietly locked the Guesthouse door behind me. It was 6:15.

Since Stephen and David lived around the corner from Mushanokoji, the most direct way to their house was to head west on Kitayama Street and then down Karasuma Street toward the Imperial Palace. But that morning I decided to take an alternate route to witness the frosty gray light of morning rise over the Kamo River. The cold damp air smelled like burning leaves as I made my way past the frost-crusted hedges along the embankment. Mist hovered over the water, shrouding the marsh grass and bridges in a diaphanous veil of platinum white. Just when I thought I was the only one awake, a loud flapping of wings broke the silence and a white crane lifted off the water. The sun had yet to break through by the time I reached Stephen and David's home. Much too early.

By taking the river route, I had arrived just before 7:00. So I circled the block. But by 7:15, I was back where I had started. Should I knock or should I leave? “I'll be up at six,” echoed Stephen's voice in my head. Maybe he and David are awake, I
thought. Maybe Stephen needs me. Maybe he's up to his elbows in dashi. Maybe he's wondering where I am.

I knocked on the gate. Silence. I knocked again. Still nothing. “Stephen?” I meekly called. “Are you there?” I craned my head around, but saw no one. Then I knocked a little louder. Silence. “Helloooooo,” I called. I rapped the door and waited. And waited.

“Stephen!” I shouted.

“Coming,” whined a voice. I heard a rustle along the garden path, and suddenly Stephen stood before me. He was wrapped in an extra-large white-and-navy casual kimono, looking like a big baby who had just been roused from his nap. He unlocked the gate and slid it open. “I hope I'm not too early,” I said, looking at his tousled hair.