Untangling My Chopsticks (14 page)

“Have you seen my
tabi?
” asked David, poking his head into the kitchen. These are the formal white socks worn with kimono that separate at the big toe to accommodate the thong of a sandal.

“No. Try the bedroom.” Stephen didn't look up, but kept grating a gluey Japanese mountain yam into a bowl. It looked unnervingly like something fit for a Kleenex, but he assured me it would taste fabulous once the recipe was finished. After blending the yam with rice flour and sugar to form a dough, Stephen would form it into small flat rounds. In the center of these, he would place a smidgen of chopped dried dates, apricots, and Chinese papaya that had been macerated in plum wine, sort of like an Asian mincemeat. After crimping the dough into balls, he would steam them until light and cakey.

“Did you get the flowers for the
tokonoma?
”yelled David from the other room. The tokonoma is the decorative alcove in a teahouse. David and Stephen had a genuine teahouse on their property.

“I did not,” whined Stephen. “David, I can't do everything. You're going to have to go out and get them. Now leave me alone.” Stephen looked up at me and faked tearing his hair out.

“What can I do next?” I quickly offered.

“Place the beans on the skewers for the hassun,” said Stephen, handing me a bowl of shiny stout black beans. “The
skewers are on that shelf.” He pointed to a cellophane packet of green bamboo toothpicks with their tops tied into pretty little loops.

“How many should I make?” I asked, popping a bean in my mouth. The skin was leathery, but then gave way to a creamy sugar-drenched interior. Served on the cedar tray with the chewy cuttlefish boiled in salt and sake, this dish would be a nice mix of sweet and salty. Kind of like peanut M&M's, I thought, eating another one.

“Make nine skewers,” answered Stephen. “You'll need four for the guests, one for David, and then one for you, me, Brad, and Kyle to eat later.”

“They're pretty, eh?” He ate a bean. “Try one,” he said, pointing to the bowl. I took another.

“The secret is nails,” he said. “Just wrap a few in cheesecloth and add them to the pot as they cook. Keeps the beans nice and black.”

I stabbed a bean with the skewer. “How many beans to a pick?”

“Just three.”

I continued making the tiny bean kebobs that looked more appropriate for a dollhouse of vegetarians than a roomful of tea guests. “Are you sure three is enough?”

“Yes,” replied Stephen. “You want the guests to leave the teahouse just a little bit hungry, so they'll remember the meal and want to return for more.”

While he and I worked in the kitchen, David and his helpers readied the tearoom. I couldn't imagine what they were doing. How much had to be done? Stephen assured me “lots,” starting with the garden.

First, the roji had to be checked to make sure there were no
twigs or shrubbery along the path that could catch on the hems and sides of the guests' kimonos. Then the stepping stones needed to be scrubbed. The moss around them had to be cleaned and “fluffed” with a broom. Gutters and drains needed to be freed of debris, including spiders, which if found, in the Buddhist tradition of considering all living things sacred, would need to be “relocated.”The stone washbasin had to be washed and filled with fresh water because that is where the guests would purify their mouths and hands before entering the tearoom. “And then,” said Stephen, laughing, “David has to prepare the tearoom.”

Because it was the cold season, the fire pit in the tearoom would be used. In tea, the year divides into two parts: November through April, when the tea master uses a sunken hearth to boil the water for tea, and May through October, when he uses a portable charcoal brazier.

To prepare for his guests, David had to attend to dozens of details, including finding just the right-size pieces of charcoal to put in the sunken hearth. The size of the charcoal would determine the time it would take to create the hearth's proper temperature to boil water for the tea, which had to be calculated precisely to coincide with the end of our tea kaiseki meal.

By 10:30, Stephen and I had completed most of the cooking. Brad had briefly popped in to help Stephen prepare the sweets, then left to get dressed, while I had finished simmering the cuttlefish for the hassun. After Stephen put on the rice, he slipped the cedar tray in a sink of cold water to soak. The water would fill the wood's pores, thus preventing any strong flavors from seeping in. Wetting the rose-colored wood would also give the tray a look of freshness and offer the illusion that the beans had been just-picked and the cuttlefish recently caught.

David shuffled toward Stephen in a regal midnight-blue ki
mono and bowed. Tea kimonos differ from formal and dance kimonos in that the sleeves are shorter, to ease the practice of preparing tea. The front panel is also wider in order to stay snug during the constant getting down on one's knees. “Guests will be here in less than an hour,” he announced, then shuffled out.

I felt a rise of panic. “Don't worry, dear,” said Stephen, with a laugh. “We're doing fine. Just first-time jitters.”

At 11:45, I heard voices in the garden. Tea guests traditionally arrive fifteen minutes early, whereupon they enter the main gate and head to the waiting pavilion. There, they remove their coats, set down umbrellas or packages, and enjoy the hot welcome drink. Stephen had prepared tiny cups of boiled water, drawn from the same source David would use for the tea, and flavored it with ginger juice. Brad put the cups on a tray and delivered them to the guests.

Kyle, now clad in a dashing wilderness-green silk kimono and spanking split-toed socks, stayed on our side of the
fusuma,
ready to serve the tea kaiseki. A fusuma is a thick paper-covered sliding panel used to separate rooms; in our case the kitchen from the tearoom.

After the guests had finished their hot drink in the waiting pavilion, David entered the tea garden to rinse his hands and mouth with water from a wooden bucket that he would then pour into a stone basin. Ideally, the water is drawn from a sacred spring or well at dawn, since dawn water is called “flower of the well” and is what traditionally was used to make religious offerings, as well as medicine. When David had finished purifying his mind and spirit, he would open the middle gate and greet his guests. By doing so, he would figuratively clear the path for the guests' journey to possible enlightenment.

Soon, the voices in the garden grew noticeably louder and
more distinct as the guests made their way from the middle gate to the tearoom. In traditional tea fashion, they would walk slowly to create distance between themselves. This would give them the appropriate personal space to transition from their material self to their spiritual persona, since walking the roji symbolically strips one naked. This baring of the soul enables the guests to share themselves with each other in the tearoom and stay open to transformation.

Several minutes later, I heard the guests admiring the scroll in the alcove. From what I could tell, there were two women and two men. The ideal number of guests at a tea ceremony (with or without a kaiseki meal) is four, so when the tea master joins them the group becomes five. That is because most tearooms are quite small (often four and one half tatami) and serving more than four guests would be cramped and cumbersome.

In addition to having a “first guest,” or guest of honor, every formal tea ceremony with a kaiseki meal has a “last guest.” The “first guest” is the one person the tea master has chosen to honor, for whatever reason (to commemorate a special birthday or personal accomplishment). The “last guest” is usually a friend or relative of the tea master, who is extremely knowledgeable about tea etiquette and can almost act as a “helper.” The other two guests tend to be friends of the guest of honor.

At exactly 12:15, Stephen began the tea kaiseki. He didn't move fast but laid out four square black lacquer trays carefully and precisely on a small ledge in the kitchen—inches away from the sliding panel into the tearoom. He ladled out the creamy miso soup, whereupon I dropped in two lotus root balls and, as directed, helped Brad place the bowls in the bottom right corner of each tray. In the bottom left corner of the trays we placed a black bowl holding a small scoop of steamed rice. Toward the top of
the tray, thus creating a triangle, Stephen set down the mukozuke (literally, “beyond attach”), because this marinated fish or vegetable dish is supposed to sit beyond the rice and miso soup but stay attached to them by virtue of being situated at the apex of the triangle. The fish of choice was a mouthful of
maguro
(nonfatty tuna) cubes tossed with diced avocado, dashi, wasabi, soy, and mirin.

Normally, tuna doesn't show up at a tea kaiseki because the brilliant ruby flesh is considered too gaudy. White fish is preferred for its pure understated elegance. Avocado also rarely appears because it is considered quite modern. But Stephen was giving his tea kaiseki an American twist.

He added another personal touch to his tea kaiseki by placing a “welcome dish” on this first tray. Apparently, first-time tea kaiseki guests are given such an offering, which in this case was a small saucer of slippery caramel-colored mushrooms tossed with yuzu citrus juice and grated daikon.

The last item on the tray was a pair of cedar chopsticks that had been soaked in water and wiped dry. Stephen rested them on the tray's edge so that they lay parallel to the bottom, sticking out just a tad on the right-hand side. These chopsticks are called
Rikyu-bashi
and are exclusively used for tea kaiseki. They're a combination of the words
Rikyu,
from Sen no Rikyu, who first started using them, and the Japanese word for chopsticks, which is
hashi.
(The “h” changes to a “b” when the words combine.)

Kyle came over to where Stephen was bent over his work.

“Ready?” he whispered. Stephen stood up and nodded and Kyle gracefully picked up the first tray and delivered it to the guest of honor. He returned and, one by one, brought out the remaining trays. Coos of approval drifted back to the kitchen.

While the guests ate, we started preparing the heart of the
kaiseki meal. But before it went out, Stephen handed Kyle a pot of hot sake. Kyle would deliver it to David, who in turn would serve it to the guests as an accompaniment to their tuna and avocado. I wondered if the sake would make the guests tipsy and ruin their appreciation for the tea.

“No, it will relax them,” replied Stephen. “Nothing worse than a room full of uptight tea guests. Hiromi, who teaches tea with David, is out there and she could sure use a little loosening up.” He cackled and handed me a stack of wanmori bowls.

Slightly larger than the plain black bowls used for the miso soup, the wanmori bowls were especially beautiful because of the graceful gold flowers painted around the base and lid. I lined them up on the kitchen ledge, and in the center of each Stephen laid a velvety slab of just-cooked turkey meat. Over the meat, I placed a square of soft wheat gluten. Stephen tucked in a slice of just-cooked carrot and perched a tight rectangular stack of blanched chrysanthemum leaves up against the turkey. I balanced a piece of yuzu zest—cut like a split pine needle—over the greens, while Stephen filled the bowl one third of the way up with a rich turkey broth. Brad placed the lids over the bowls and then handed one to Kyle, who carried it out on a tray to the guest of honor. We arranged the remaining soups on a large tray, which Kyle retrieved from the kitchen ledge.

Next, we began grilling the mushrooms for the yakimono. After the giant shiitake caps turned limp and soggy from their continuous soy-mirin basting, Stephen transferred them to a cutting board. “Remember, they're using chopsticks,” he said, scoring the caps into bite-size chunks. “You don't want them to wrestle with the food and have it plop on their kimonos. Everything should be bite-size at a tea kaiseki. You want to avoid messy drippy sauces.”This holds true for Japanese cuisine in general. Few dishes
involve sauces because they cannot be eaten with chopsticks. Traditional Japanese cuisine tends to be so healthy because it uses no butter or cream. The Buddhist taboo against eating meat and dairy products until the Meiji Restoration (1868 –1912) further contributed to the culture's aversion to greasy tastes.

For a pleasing contrast, Stephen piled the round brown caps on a cream-colored square dish. Japanese cooks, particularly tea kaiseki and restaurant kaiseki masters, treat food arrangement as a fine art. To create exciting patterns for diners, chefs carefully choose opposing shapes, such as a square vessel for round foods or a round container for block-shaped food. No two serving dishes of the same shape or style should ever be used in succession to avoid repetition.

If a square dish is placed on a square tray, the dish can be turned so that the angled corners face the flat sides of the tray, thus breaking the dull monotony of horizontal and linear lines. To juxtapose lengths, foods are cut into long and short shapes. To contrast size, chefs place both big and small foods on the same plate.

So many details, I thought, watching Stephen stack the mushrooms with his chopsticks. In addition to food arrangement, seasonality plays an integral part in the Japanese kitchen.

Eating a meal in Japan is said to be a communion with nature. This particularly holds true for both tea and restaurant kaiseki, where foods at their peak of freshness reflect the seasonal spirit of that month. The seasonal spirit for November, for example, is “Beginning Anew,” because according to the old Japanese lunar calendar, November marks the start of the new tea year. The spring tea leaves that had been placed in sealed jars to mature are ready to grind into tea. The foods used for a tea kaiseki
should carry out this seasonal theme and be available locally, not flown in from some exotic locale.

For December, the spirit is “Freshness and Cold.” Thus, the colors of the guests' kimonos should be dark and subdued for winter, while the incense that permeates the tearoom after the meal should be rich and spicy. The scroll David chose to hang in the alcove during the tea kaiseki no doubt depicted winter, through either words or an ink drawing. As for the flowers that would replace the scroll for the tea ceremony, David likely would incorporate a branch of pine to create a subtle link with the pine needle–shaped piece of yuzu zest we had placed in the climactic dish. Both hinted at the winter season and coming of New Year's, one of David's underlying themes for the tea kaiseki. Some of the guests might never make the pine needle connection, but it was there to delight those who did.