Stay and Eat

The Dragon Gate:

Chisato took me to Kyoto, to see the moss gardens of the Zen temples there, to go to the flea market, and to eat in a little restaurant that served the kind of cooking associated with the tea ceremony. She and Tommy (her husband, Tsutomu) had eaten there once.

Kyoto is one of the magic cities. It looks a bit small and grubby from the train station, as though everything had been carefully planned to look very ordinary. The magic is concealed behind many gates and doors, tucked away in a maze of alleyways.

It was in one of these mazes that Chisato and I searched for the little restaurant. After winding around and back a dozen or so times, asking many people where with no luck, I began to wonder if the place actually existed. I asked Chisato how long it had been since she had been there, and she answered, “Eighteen years.” Oh, says I, it’s probably gone by now; not many restaurants last for that long. “This one is for a long time,” was her reply.

Finally we stopped someone who knew, and they pointed out the alleyway that we had overlooked.

The restaurant itself could have easily been overlooked for being very modest. It was tiny; seating only eight people. The flagstone floor had just been scrubbed, the table looked as though it had just been split out of a giant pine. The kitchen was entirely visible and appeared to be a hearth in the floor, tended by a very quietly dressed and serene seeming woman. She smiled and greeted us. Wafts of cooking steam eased gently out of the iron pots. The effect was so reserved that the contents of the room seemed to disappear. Chisato spoke to the woman, and soon we were served.

The food was extraordinarily delicious and exquisitely beautiful, but not at all in a flashy way. There were no curlicues, nor garnishing of any sort. The food sat, like the quiet cook, in modest perfection, on beautiful but unostentatious ceramic dishes, lovely as they were, with nothing to prove.

I cannot remember everything we ate. There were tiny teriyaki drumsticks from chicken wings, cylinders of rolled omelet, pickles and rice, and little bundles of what I think must have been stems from coltsfoot, about the size and shape of slender green beans.

When I tasted those, a wave of something, not quite nostalgia, or homesickness, because it was so satisfying - not at all the recognition of a lack, swept through me and I was transported, out of the tiny invisible room, and back, across the ocean into my mother’s kitchen. The little bundle of stems did at once, and did not, at all, taste exactly like Cebah’s green beans! How could that be?

Cebah cooks her green beans very simply, with a piece of pork, in salted water, until they are very tender, but not falling apart. I believe that I know how the coltsfoot stems were cooked; in dashi. I suspect that what they had in common is the toothsome quality described as “home-cooking.”

The tea ceremony kitchen would use only the very best ingredients available. Dashi is made with water, dried bonito, and kelp. The ovoid piece of bonito, dried so hard that it dings like a bell, is shaved with a carpenter’s plane-like thing attached to a wooden box that catches the shavings. The finest grade has a subtle smoky-ish flavor, as savory as good bacon can be. It doesn’t register as fish to my tongue, but that’s probably because my tongue has a limited concept of what fish can be.

Today, Cebah and I shared the most fabulous lunch imaginable, a celebration really, of the first wave of our garden produce. What we ate would not have been out of place at all served on the clean blond wood of the tea ceremony restaurant. Kitchen magic is magic, in Kentucky or Kyoto. Here’s what he had, and how to make it:

First off there’s always a catch; to be in the true tea ceremony style, as well as the old time farm kitchen style, you’ll likely have to grow your own garden.

The star of our lunch was the first mess of peas. To be at their best, peas must be picked and hulled just before the cooking, and that’s what we did. They should be picked small, a necessity in our case, because we were eager to have them, but the individual peas should not be over 1/4 inch across, and many of them should be much smaller. If they are tight and hard they might serve perfectly well for another purpose.

Heat just enough salted water to cover them until it simmers. Add the peas, and if you wish, a pat of butter. (It will not avail you to affect a spartan pose.) Simmer them until they are heated through, which will be no more than 4 minutes. Drain them, but not absolutely. You must be ready to serve them immediately, so time everything else on the menu to that end.

It was a bit of a surprise to discover a single early cucumber when we picked the peas.

Cucumbers are the favorite food of the Kappa, elfy turtle-like critters or people that are said to live near or in clean water in Japan. They have a bowl-shaped depression in the top of their heads that must be kept filled with clean water at all times. Keep that in mind as you peel and slice a fresh, tender, cucumber into 1/4 inch thick rounds. Place them in a pretty bowl and dash them with a shot of rice vinegar, the best kind; “gold.” Salt with fleur de sel, and sprnkle on a chiffonade of tender dill weed, and a couple of cubes of cracked ice. Let this set for at least 15 minutes.

Grub around the base of your largest potatoe plants until you find enough new potatoes to make a mess. A new potato, technically speaking, has just reached the size of a marble, or a little larger. If it is the size of a golf ball it’s hardly new.

Scrape off the tissue thin skin with a knife. You might think this a sophistry or a waste; it is neither. The exposed surface of the potato will release starch into the water, which will form the foundation of a sauce. Simmer these in salted water until they are tender enough to pierce easily. If you have a cup or so of cooking liquid, for that amount mix a tablespoon of flour, and a grind of pepper, into a 3rd cup of cold water and strain this through a seive into the potato cooking liquid.

Stir the sauce carefully until it returns to a simmer and thickens. It should be translucent and not too thick. Test it for salt and serve. There is something similar to this in Japan, called “silver sauce.”

I suppose this is a good place to say something about salting water for cooking vegetables. It should taste as salty as seawater. Each of us has our own memory of what that means. Remember that.

For our dessert, we had strawberries, with a sprinkle of sugar, and some cream poured over.

image | sound | story | index | home