April 23, 2010
By Marlena Spieler

One of the most outstanding things of our food tour of Japan, hosted by Jetro, Japan External Trade Organization (a governmental organization), was its fabulously well-planned choice of stops along the way. And by this: I mean, the inspiring array of producers, from the kelp farm chicken farmer who lies awake at night "thinking of ways to make my chickens' lives better" to the farmers wife who took charge of her life after surviving cancer, and deciding that she wanted change, created a homemade brewery where she makes "dobche" an unrefined sake, and runs a traditional country restaurant, Kimagure Chaya Chieko, in the Sasu Mountains of Fukushima province. Here she serves her home brew accompanied by a selection of pickled vegetables: cucumber, daikon, sweet, savory, miso-rich, tangy sour....along with rustic dried then fried mochi drenched in sweet-savory sauce and a basket of satsuma citrus. Sitting in her restaurant, at the traditional table on the floor with our chilled-from-winter bodies warmed under the heavy blanket that stretched from the table to cover our legs, we listened to her story as she brought plate after plate of pickles and other zesty treats.

When asked what her dream would be, she paused at first, then looked around the room at us and said, simply: "But this IS my dream: that people from all over the world would come to me!” For her homemade pickled vegetables, served up in her cozy traditional farmhouse, I would travel the world to get to. Her uplifting spirit is a bonus.

Then there was the bamboo shoot farmer and his industrious wife who had, as they are located in a hot springs area, turned their home into a B&B, and with traditional tatami matted rooms, decor and landscaping. She had also been named Japan's mother of the year; when asked her favorite way of eating bamboo shoots she said: soup. "People come from far away to eat my bamboo shoot soup". To eat the shoots simply, barbecued as she was preparing it, they must be eaten within a few hours of pickling, and otherwise they become bitter. (To sell at market, they are blanched). As the farmer prepared the fire, his wife wrapped each bamboo chunk in foil then placed it on the fire. We hovered around, under the patio cover, staying dry from the rain and keeping warm from the fire. When the bamboo shoots were unwrapped, sliced up and doused with soy sauce we ate as if we were starving, though in fact it had not been long since the last meal. They were delicious: tasting like fresh artichokes, earthy potatoes, nutty girasol, not like the tinned bamboo shoots we were all used to: slightly metallic, sour, tasteless. No, these were fabulous--we could not stop eating. The farmer and his wife looked a little shocked at our appetites, though perhaps that is a projection of my own shame of greed speaking.

We had moments where we weren't eating, or at least not too much: we sailed on a little boat into the sea to visit the oyster beds; picked Depokan oranges and were filmed by a television crew, later to appear on the evening news; we visited Kumamoto castle and we walked through the little town of Hitoyoshi, admiring the displays for Hina Matsuri, Girls Day, including dolls, and Haiku poetry painted onto chime-like pieces of wood.

Along the way, along the way to everywhere, we ate. I therefore wish, also, to offer appreciation at how well chosen the restaurants were, from the first "unofficial" night when Taka took Greg, Vanessa and I to a local noodle joint; I'm still rocking with that memory: those noodles: chewy al dente; that sauce: thick like Bolognese but meaty, fishy, seaweedy, delightfully spicy and incredibly savory. Those bamboo shoots, slightly salty, like no others I’ve tasted and which I've been searching for ever since. And the hard-working band of lively, energetic, informal young people making the noodles, serving them up, the hustle and bustle of fellow noodle-eaters. What if I never again taste such noodles? How could I go on? For this reason alone, I must return to Japan.

Each meal represented a different aspect of Japanese food, from the over a hundred year old soba restaurant to lunch at Kumamoto Castle where our meal reflected time before the dark salty soy sauce came to Japan's table, when miso and mirin were the main flavorings, a lunch that introduced us to the mustard-filled lotus root specialty to which I became as close to addicted as is possible: crisp crunchy lotus root, its flower-like holes filled with tear-inducing hot mustard, the whole root cloaked in thin batter and fried. I find myself attempting to perfect a perfect homemade one these days, so far to little success.

I loved our lunch at a countryside restaurant that I have since referred to as "The artistic woman's restaurant". Located in a bamboo forest, she had cleared the land, designed all aspects of the charming building overlooking a lake, overseeing the "home-style" food in traditional setting. Everywhere were signs of her artisticality, from the baskets, to the pottery, to the aprons, as well as the signs advertising jazz and music nights she hosts at her little restaurant. On our way out, I bought some of her home-preserved ume, which were delicious! (The truth is, though, that I bought home-preserved ume each and every time I had the opportunity. I lugged home a suitcase with more preserved ume than most likely anyone else on our plane, possibly in the past years worth of Air Japan flights to be honest. And oh, I'm so enjoying sharing and eating my way through those ume.)

Several evenings on our trip we stayed at a ryokan; These traditional inns gave us a glimpse into the soul of the country. They are hotels, yes, but they are steeped in tradition, from the welcoming tea in the tatami-mat room where we slept not in beds but on futons; the first time I walked into the room, a traditionally dressed woman offered me tea, tiny delicate sweets, and ushered me into a calm quiet peaceful environment; I nearly burst into tears. The beauty on all levels was very emotional.

At the ryokan not only are the rooms traditionally arranged, with screens and most likely a view of nature as part of a large window, but also there is a very traditional meal of washoku, and in the morning a similarly very traditional breakfast. You might think that after a large dinner one wouldn't be hungry for breakfast, but you'd be wrong. For one thing, the food is abundance in its variety, but light: small dishes of small things, delighting the senses as well as filling the stomach. And you wouldn't want your stomach too full in any case, because a traditional bath in natural hot mineral springs is part of the appeal. When you arrive, you are shown a bow with a yukata, which we would think of as a kimono-like robe; to keep it closed, an obi, or sash; and to wear over it all, haori. Walking around in these clothing at the very first moment feels like a costume; after five minutes or so it feels perfect and I almost felt graceful in moving (though not graceful at all when I found myself unraveling).

The communal baths (men and women separate) are not just about health, or being clean, nor are they spa-like in their indulgence though indulgent and beautiful they are. The traditional Japanese baths are as much about transmitting culture as is the traditional food. It’s considered bad form as in a huge no-no to wear a bathing suit. Once one gets over this hurdle, there is nothing so blissful as sitting in the hot water, feet on a bed of stones, perhaps sitting on a ledge of stones. Some baths are more modern in design: beautifully tiled, while others are rustic; all are beautiful, esthetic, well-designed and waterscaped. An intrinsic part of the bathing experience is squatting on a low stool, washing yourself then filling a tiny wooden bucket with hot water and rinsing yourself by pouring the water over your head: exhilarating.

Unexpectedly, this was one of the highest moments of the trip for me, indeed of my life. Sitting in the hot water, musing over this unexpected turn of wonderfulness, I thought: If I lived here I'd come to an onsen (hot spring) every day! At that moment, the door opened and the two elderly women who had been serving us walked in. Earlier in the evening they looked so tired, I felt bad being waited on by them. Then they eased themselves into the hot water. Suddenly their faces lit up, they became animated, bubbly, and nearly girlish. They were having fun! Also, I might add, they were very amused by me: I don't think they had ever seen anyone quite so large, quite so blonde and quite so foreign.

"We come here every night" they exclaimed, through an interpreter. as they frolicked, there can be no other word for it: frolicked. And then, in the most touching and adorable moment of my life, these ladies smilingly scrubbed my back, poured water over my head, treated me like a big blond doll and the next day were happily telling all the story about our night in the hot baths. I've never felt so honored in all of my life.

One of the aspects of this trip that also stands out, was our group: each person was touched deeply by Japan, and it was watching everyone else that I felt my own wonderment and admiration enhanced. Each was not only open to learning, but also to giving: Greg Atkinson with his love of the Japanese culture he is surrounded by in Seattle and his son going to school in Osaka; Lucy Burningham with her keen interest in practically everything and her down to earth style; Vanessa McGrady who taught me the meaning of several things, including: "Be ready for when you get the call!". Pamela Parseghian was up for any and every adventure going and Renie Steves always had something good to say to our hosts, to each of us, often accompanied by a gift she brought from Texas. W. Blake Gray was unstintingly generous with his extensive knowledge of Japan and I can't think of a vending machine OR coffee without thinking of Kristen Siefkin. Each person saw different aspects of our travels, and went out of their ways to share their experiences with each other. The esteem with which I hold Japan is reflected in my affection towards my travelling companions; and the esteem with which I hold my travelling companions helped grow my affection for the beautiful exotic and endlessly fascinating Land we travelled through. And to Taka Watanabe and Nobuko Oshima as well as the wonderful hosts from Jetro in Japan, I say: arrigato ohio, and hope, hope, hope, that I'm saying it right!