Kaki Furai

Spring is nearly here. The sun comes earlier and lasts much longer, and it feels warmer, even though my Yahoo weather says it's not. It's the time of year when you pass a dried, brown patch of land on the way to work, only to discover it has patches of bright green when you return home. How did that happen? Was it really that warm today? (Of course, living by Tokyo Midtown, the many landscapers may have just put down some new sod.) I swear, a couple of days ago, when I left the office I could actually smell spring: dirt and flowers and cut grass. It all made me a little sad.

That's because with the plum blossoms (out this week) and the cherry blossoms (due at the end of March), we must say goodbye to kaki furai. I know spring and summer have much to offer -- peaches and melons and tomatoes so good you can eat them out of your hand, over the sink, blah, blah, blah. But the trade-off is vastly disappointing. I'm facing almost a whole year without fried oysters.

About this time last year, I was introduced to Japanese oysters. This was no casual encounter, no one-night meal. I've always been an oyster lover -- each time I land in New Orleans, I'm slightly cranky until I get to the Acme Oyster House where I order oysters both on the half shell and on my po-boy. I never thought anything would beat steamy, fried oysters sprinkled in split French bread and "dressed" with lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise.

Then I met the Japanese kaki, and my oyster ship ran aground. I was in southern Japan, nearer Hiroshima, at Miyajima's annual kaki festival. I arrived late, about noon, and people were lined by the hundreds to get their free samples of oysters. I snapped a few photos, wondering about all the fuss. Then I noticed the fires.

The festival cookers had set up giant barbecue pits, open flames covered with door-sized wire grates hovering atop. On the grates were hundreds of oysters, steaming and roasting. This was no ordinary site. These oysters, in the shell, were at least six inches long. After taking a few more photos, one of the men who was doing the roasting shucked a kaki and handed it to me. The meat was sweet and moist and so tender I'm sure you could have cut it with a spoon. Me, I didn't have a spoon and wouldn't have bothered if I had. I did, however, have to eat the thing in two bites, an oyster faux pas if ever there was one. t couldn't be helped. These oysters were as big as the palm of my hand.

Thus, it began. I eat 18 that day, roasted, and fried and swimming in soup. You might think I'm exaggerating, or making it all up. It was a year ago. Nope, I remember, especially caused those last four fried ones nearly put me over the top.

I asked a friend about kaki furai at dinner last night (over Japanese curry, another food tale for another time). I told her I thought it strange that for all the sushi in the world, oysters on the half shell in Japan appeared only at western-style oyster bars, not at the local sushi kaiten. She said Japanese did eat raw oysters, only very carefully at special restaurants and strictly by the season. Kaki furai (pronounced foo-ry) were a much more reliable bet.

And much tastier, too, I have to say. I've not bothered to make them myself. Much like sushi and tempura, the preparation is so exacting I'm intimidated to try. If I haven't said it before, I'll say it now: Japanese chefs know how to fry. The oil is perfect and the food comes out crispy and light, with almost no grease. I can't imagine I could do this at home.

So I've been bringing them home, pre-cooked, in packages of five for about $7 a serving. I warm them in the oven, put them in a salad or eat them alone with steamed rice and pickles. They come with a thick, sweet soy-ish sauce, but I don't bother. In fact, last time, I ate a few before I remembered to get out the camera.













As the weather warms, the kaki shrink. There's no use fighting it. Life is about cycles. Here comes Will Ferrell in another pair of tight bitches, right on time. Kaki furai are around in the summer, but it's not the same. Already, this week, the market starting selling twice as many fried oysters for half the price. The mollusks were small, about half the size of their January brothers. Within the next two weeks or so, the market's fried oysters won't be worth the chefs' time or my money. Then, I'll have to turn my attention to new things -- strawberries and cherries and movies that make me laugh instead of weep. Not a bad way to spend a summer after all.

I scream

Four thousand year ago, someone in India got the brilliant idea to strip a sesamum of its seeds and sprinkle them on a bagel. Approximately 3,975 years later, another well-meaning sap used them to decorate a hamburger bun. To this day, legend has it that sesame seeds are the most nutritious part of a Big Mac. It's an urban myth I swear by.

Meanwhile, in other parts of the world, people were grinding sesame seeds into wonderful things, like tahini, pasteli, flavored kim, and gomashio, a mix of ground sesame and salt found on some Japanese tables as a condiment. (Or, alternatively, gomashio is a phrase used to describe salt-and-pepper hair. I love it when the world feels this small.)

Finally, thank goodness, someone thought to grind up black sesame seeds and make ice cream.

About once a year, usually in the summer, I consider getting an ice cream maker. Peaches and strawberries and lychees and melons -- I love sorbet. In Paris, they use nutella. In Kamakura, they use sweet potatoes. It sounds outrageous and fun. But my kitchen is small and the investment is large, especially when you consider this one weighs 33 pounds.

Thank goodness for Tokyo Midtown, the shopping and business behemoth around the corner from my apartment. I rarely get past the basement, the food court and emporium, where you can buy Kyodo tofu, handmade onigiri, and $100 cantaloupes. It all makes an ice cream maker seem like a bargain, I know.
















Still, it's easier to plunk down 550 yen, about $5, and get a single serving of black sesame ice cream. If you like peanut butter ice cream, you'd love this flavor. If you've never had peanut butter ice cream, what are you waiting for? I got this little tub at a patisserie that, funnily enough, sells chocolates and jellies and ice creams, but no baked goods. What it lacks in flaky dough it more than makes up for in creamy goodness. Black ice cream? It's a dream.

And I'm still thinking about that ice cream maker. Maybe this summer will be the one. Especially after seeing a recipe for yuzu sorbet. Maybe that fancy fruit store has a tub that will tide me over.

When breakfast ends at 4

It's early February, and I find that I'm the perplexed owner of eight bottles of champagne. There they are, lying along the bottom shelf of the fridge on their tummies, stretched out, practically yawning. It all came about after over-estimating our needs on New Year's. I thought each person would have about three glasses of champagne. I should have counted more carefully and bought more Knob Creek. Oh, those lessons learned.

Is there something you can make with so much leftover champagne? A lifetime supply of vinegar? Soup? And who in her right mind has leftover champagne?

Thus, breakfast. And, as this is Saturday, a tiny little hangover. So, I decided to treat a couple of friends to my version of Japanese breakfast. I'm sure there's no such thing as Japanese breakfast, much like there's no such thing as Chinese take out in China. Here, breakfast is just breakfast, and it's quickly becoming my favorite feast at the beginning of the day. As best I can tell, the meal usually includes miso soup, broiled fish, eggs (typically made as a beautiful, rolled omelet), steamed rice and pickles. And hiyayakko, cold tofu.

Hiyahakko is a simple dish of drained tofu topped with grated ginger, bonito flakes, chopped leek or green onion, and soy sauce with dashi (fish broth). It takes less time to assemble than it does to type this sentence, so I eat it about two or three times a week. But this morning, I decided to include the tofu in hot miso soup. My apartment is pretty chilly, as was my hangover. Thus, soup.

So I broiled the fish after dousing it with mirin, sesame oil and soy sauce. The rice steamed, the eggs -- scrambled with a little more sesame -- slowly cooked in the skillet. And the miso soup made the whole place smell earthy and good.

"How do you make miso soup?" my friend asked.

I paused. My Japanese friends may shudder slightly, but I've come up with my own version which is limited by my ability to read konji but enhanced by my love of mushrooms. But I think it's alright. Miso soup is one of those things that is based on a spoonful of ground soy beans. It's a little like asking how one makes cinnamon-sugar. You mix the ingredients until you're happy with what's in the bowl.

So I showed her my version. And then, we served it all up. A few massive cinnamon rolls from a nearby bakery, hot tea and good orange juice. And, then the pop. Hooray.

We tucked in just before noon and sipped and snacked. We talked about all the things girls talk about during a lazy breakfast with mimosas -- boys, car accidents, global politics, the best way into Tibet, boys. We made more tea, finally put away the leftovers around 3, and moved to the couch. It was another hour before we decided to fully wake up and start the day. More than Japanese breakfast, I love a meal that lasts all day.


My miso soup

When I asked one of my Japanese friends which kind of miso paste I should buy, she shrugged her shoulders. "The one on sale," she said, standing before the refrigerated shelve holding at least a dozen different brands and styles. Miso paste ranges from almost almond-colored (white) to a dark, rich peanut butter version. For now, I've settled on the paste that has a bit of a tan, and, usually, is on sale. It comes in a tub or plastic bag, and it lasts in the fridge for months. Theoretically, that is.

Broth
Miso soup starts with water infused with bonito flakes and kombu. I keep forgetting to buy kombu, so mine starts with water and bonito (flaked, dried fish). I put one package of bonito (about a handful of fish flakes) into about four cups of water. Bring just to a boil and turn off. Strain the bonito, reserving the broth. Return broth to the pan and put on a slow burner.

To the broth, I add one soup spoon of miso paste and mix until dissolved. Taste it and see if it's salty enough or strong enough for you. Add a little water if it's too strong; add a little more paste if it's too bland. Then, I usually add whatever mushrooms I have on hand. I just cut them in bite-sized pieces and add to the broth. (I would avoid button or portabello and stick to Asian versions.) They usually need about five to ten minutes in the broth.

Bowl
To the soup bowl, I add a tablespoon or two of thinly sliced leeks (negi, in Japan), and either chopped tofu or a package of fresh soba noodles. When ready to eat, ladle the mushrooms and miso into each bowl. The steamy broth will warm the noodles or tofu perfectly.

Four cups of water will make enough for one dinner or two to three smaller servings as side dishes for any meal. The miso and broth will separate in the fridge, but it will come together just fine when reheated.

Room service

I am all about room service. The tray, the miniature salt-and-pepper shakers, the Barbie-sized bottles of ketchup, the cloth napkins. I like having my own pot of coffee and drinking every last drop. I especially like it when the dish comes covered with a chrome-colored plate cover. Lifting it off, I feel like I'm throwing a grown-up tea party.

It's a bit silly, I know. Room service is over-priced, the food arrives cold, those little bottles of ketchup make for nice little carbon footprints. Still, I can't help myself. My favorite room-service meal happened a few years ago while staying at the Holiday Inn in Natchez, Miss. It may not sound glamorous, but you try a plate full of fried oysters and a Budweiser while watching the sunset over the Mississippi. You'd remember it too.

Move over Mississippi. My new favorite happened earlier this month, when I had a kaiseki meal in a Japanese ryokan inn in Kyoto. Ryokans are Japanese inns, small hotels that usually have onsens, a bath or spa, tatami mats as beds and even rules about quiet time and curfew. Ryokans are seen as little retreats, quiet places to bathe and rest and rejuvenate.

They are also all about the food.

You can stay at a ryokan and skip the meals, dinner and breakfast. You might save a little money, but you would lose a chance to eat kaiseki. This multi-course meal is the star of many ryokans; some inns make more money on the meals than the overnight stays. And, most importantly, they serve this banquet right in your own room.

The dinner starts with some sake -- I think ours was plum-flavored shochu -- and a plate of bite-sized appetizers. My sister, her boyfriend and I were so excited about the offering, we forgot to take pictures. We recovered, somewhat, by the second course of sashimi.

















Next came soup, little dishes of vegetables and fried river fish,whose fins were dipped in salt.

















The fish, and everything else, came with its own special dipping sauce. For the fish, it was a bright-green sweetened vinegar, meant to balance the painful saltiness.

Did I mention we ordered extra sake?
















Onto the custard course, a soft egg mixed with mushroom and bits of fish.

















As you can imagine, we were getting a bit full. And, because the dinner is a set menu, we had no idea how much we had ahead of us. I was trying to pace myself. This was a marathon, not a sprint. I should have slowed down to a crawl, because then this beautiful eggplant arrived.
















"I'm going to eat this entire thing if it kills me," my sister said. She did, and was happier for it. It was perfectly roasted, with a sweet and salty miso glaze. I wished I had trained harder, because I could only make it through half of mine.

I knew the end was near when the rice arrived, steamy and simple and decorated with a confetti of ginger. Lastly came the pickles, lightly soured cabbage, cucumber and radish.
















We had made it, and soon after the plates were cleared and the tea was sipped, the staff came in to make our beds. We crawled under down comforters laid on the floor, cushioned by a thin futon mattress, and fell asleep. The only thing better than having an endless dinner brought to your room is sleeping on a tatami mat. It all makes for sweet dreams indeed.

Mandu Madness

This may sound improbable, but in recent weeks I'd forgotten just how good cheap food can be. Maybe it comes from being too excited to try as many restaurants as possible in Tokyo. Maybe it comes from forgetting that most good food starts from real hunger, the kind where you are willing to throw wet paste into boiling water and hope for the best.

From this primordial pot comes the dumpling. Nearly everybody's got one. Polish pirogi, Cantonese dim sum, German spaetzle, American chicken-'n'. In Japan, they are called gyoza, a turn on the Chinese jiaozi. No matter where you are, the basics remain the same: some form of processed grain, a pot with liquid, meat filling if you're lucky, and the obvious absence of an oven.

In Korea, they are called mandu. If they are fried they become yaki-mandu, a name built on the Japanese word for grilled. You say gnocchi (Italian) or buuz (Mongolian), I say yaki mandu is fun to say and a joy to eat. A plate of a dozen usually costs about $3.50 or less from a Korean ramyen shop. Better yet, somebody on the premises makes each of these little guys by hand. Those above, filled with spicy kimchi, are awaiting their fate of steaming or frying. I like them both ways, but had them steamed a couple of nights ago.

I also had a full helping of kimbap, the ultimate Korean snack food (only according to me; sorry if I got your hopes up). It may look like sushi, but look again. It's usually filled with carrot, cucumber, fake crab meat, yellow radish, egg and spam or ham. (I've had both and can't decide which works better.) I know, you're dying to go out and get some.

But I'm telling you, there's something about the combination of this sweet, salty, chewy, and ricy roll that gets to me. I think my kimbap crush comes from the stone soup theory. On their own, each ingredient ranges from meager to you've-got-to-be-kidding-me. Together, cut thinly and bolstered by rice, each bite becomes balanced and filling.

Plus, it's pretty to look at and usually only about $2 a roll. It beats the hell out of a Big Mac any day.

Cleaning my bowl

I spent a night at a Buddhist temple last weekend in South Korea. It was not everything I'd hoped for. The translation was poor, the temple's construction crews and streams of visitors made it less than relaxing, and the floors of our sleeping room sat atop an all-night fire. Yes, it was August in tropical, muggy Korea. No, I was not enlightened.

The food, however, wasn't bad. Spicy, simple and vegetarian -- a trio that's pretty high on my menu. For dinner the first night we ate cafeteria style. I grabbed my big, white bowl and scooped in steamed rice, sesame-flavored spinach, pickled cucumbers and tofu. There were few other things I tried, including some squiggly, thick threads closely resembling Styrofoam drenched in hot sauce. Those didn't go down so smoothly. But go down they did.

At a Buddhist meal, every morsel on the plate must be eaten. This is to save the life (or perhaps the afterlife?) of the hungry ghosts. These poor creatures are just one form on the evolutionary journey toward enlightenment. Leaving a speck of rice in your bowl would muddy the dish water, the ghosts' sole bit of nourishment. That, in turn, would cause the hungry ghosts with their parched but narrow throats to choke. I never quite got the cause and effect of this story. If the hungry ghost remains hungry, what's the point? Nevertheless, I would feel sad if my dirty bowl choked the ghoulish fellows. And, anyway, I'm always pretty partial to cleaning my plate.

It was the dining experience itself, that caused me to come away feeling hungry. This was especially punctuated during our breakfast, a traditional monk meal. Our four bowls came neatly stacked, tied up with linen and chopsticks. This I liked, and I wished they had sold them in the gift shop. (Yes, the temple had a gift shop. I suppose the Vatican does too.)

The meal was simple -- rice, broth with bean sprouts, a few side dishes. The service was elaborate. Members of the group silently spooned out rice and water and such to each diner, along with accompanying genuflections. No one was allowed to talk, to ask for a little more or a little less. No one smiled. Getting all the food in the proper order and in all the proper bowls took about half an hour. Eating took about five minutes. The no-talking rule continued as we tilted our bowls over our faces, using the chopsticks to shovel in rice behind a mask. The purpose is to bring solemnity and dignity to a sparse meal. That's nice, but I've felt more purpose peeling a banana. I peeked around the room to see people quickly eating in silence. I felt lonely and lost my appetite.

This was an especially hard lesson in light of just finishing "Heat," the hysterical and myopic story of a man's obsession with learning the ways of a professional kitchen and meat carving. I didn't miss the meat or the terribly graphic cleaving scenes. I missed the laughter, the yelling, the sizzle, the sounds of somebody working and living and -- gasp! -- savoring food. I spent our monastic breakfast wishing I could sneak back in the kitchen. I pictured a few strong women stirring pots, complaining about their kids, laughing with the rice-filled mouths. That would have been much more zen-ful for me.

Tea-time was a welcomed improvement. Although the translation was awful, I could tell people were enjoying themselves. The monk who kept our tea cups full had a permanent smile on his round face. He looked like a caricature, but a true and happy and comfortable one. He talked and smiled and answered questions about his life without any pretension or worry. A few cups of tea and a slice of watermelon took an hour to consume. My head hurt a little from the lack of translation, but I was very full at the end.

Next, of course, we were off to lunch. This time I was a little more timid about what I put on my plate, knowing I'd have to eat every bite. I was lucky to only take one piece of fried rice cake, a chewy concoction that tasted like an unsweetened marshmellow. Normally I like gooey, rice-flour desserts, but this one wasn't my thing. My friend was in worse shape. She had taken of bowl of what she thought was cucumber soup. She took one bite and died a little hungry ghost death. "I'm screwed." She thought it was too salty, and I tasted. It was actually sour and sweet and salty and spicy, a thin, pickled juice with floating bits of pear and daikon and red chilis. If you could turn the flavors of Thai cucumber salad into soup, that's what it was. I liked it fine. "You don't like pickles, do you?" I asked. Turns out she hates them. I pulled the bowl toward me.

Then I noticed a miraculous thing had happened. We were talking! So was everyone around us. The no-talking rule had lasted two meals, but it failed miserably at the third. The room had cracked open with conversation. Some things, like squeaky plastic bits, are an acquired taste. It's nice to know that a more important thing -- enjoying a meal with friends -- is universal.