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Journalism of Courage
“Hold the bowl close to your mouth. Pick the noodles with chopsticks. And make a loud slurping sound.” I had barely crossed my legs on the tatami mat for a Japanese meal in Tokyo’s Umenohana restaurant, when Taiga Uezono, the director (India, Malaysia, Singapore) of the Japan National Tourist Organization, nullified all my meal etiquettes. “Slurp loudly?” Slurp? Isn’t that rude? Bad meal manners? “In Japan, slurping is appreciation, not slurping is considered rude,” he says. I chewed on that Japanese tradition. The thick udon noodles were dangling on painted chopsticks, and I tried mimicking Uezono. For a moment, I was reluctant and embarrassed. Then, I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and slurped loudly. Like a pro. In one long slurp, I had aced the ancient Japanese tradition that began with Buddhist alms-seeking monks, who were prohibited from speaking. Slurping was their way of expressing gratitude and appreciation for the food.
In Japan, my food trail began with a noise, and got me prepped for Washoku, the Japanese food culture which has been declared a part of Unesco’s Intangible Cultural Heritage. First, the rules: never waste a grain of rice because 88 spirits live in every grain. Drink the miso soup from the bowl. Eat sushi in one bite. Do not pour soy sauce over cooked white rice. Never use your hashi (chopsticks) to pull a bowl towards you; pass food to another. Licking food stuck in the chopsticks is a crime. Never stick hashi upright in the rice bowl or lay hashi across the edges of the bowl. All Japanese meals begin and end with a prayer and everything in between is sacrosanct.
Tokyo itself has a million food options — vegan, organic, vegetarian, only-tofu, high-end, street food. Blue candy floss that resemble fluffed clouds and naans in Indian restaurants come the size of a grown pig’s leg. There are frozen beer (yes, frozen beer), sushi trains, cat cafes, and even a robot-themed restaurant. Tokyo has food delights for everyone, but ask a local and he will tell you that Osaka is Japan’s “national kitchen”, where the must-eats include tako-yaki (small octopus dumplings), okonomi-yaki (grilled thick pancake with diced cabbage, meat, eggs), udon noodles, and kushi-katsu (deep-fried pork cutlets). Do not order these in Tokyo. Hold on to your octopus-hunger until you get to Osaka.
In Osaka, not only is “what to eat” a tedious question, so is “where to begin”. At dazzling depachikas (food halls in department stores), or the bustling Dotonbori street where sculpted cows hang from rooftops, crabs claw at neon lights, and men stand in hotdog fat suits? Or cram into an eight-stool Kahala that once featured in The Wall Street Journal’s top 10 restaurants in Asia? The dining district of Kitashinchi? Or, hop into any of the squat street outlets where food is cheap but you get no chairs to sit on?
I cannot stand and eat, so I chose to pick a bamboo whisk and learnt how to make traditional tea. For that, I drove to Kyoto, the former imperial capital of Japan and one of the oldest metropolises in Asia. In a teahouse, it is all zen. Zen in a teacup. The gracious bow of the kimono-clad tea master, the washing of utensils, the dug-in tea stove, the iron kettle and the rules of tea-making and tea-drinking reflect the tenets of Zen Buddhism. The tea ceremony is not merely about simmering a handful of tea leaves in a pot. It is an art. It encompasses not only the making of tea but also spirituality, appreciation of tea utensils and bowls. It goes something like this: apologise to the person sitting next to you for “having tea before him”. Hold the bowl in your left hand and turn it clockwise twice so that the bowl’s decorative motif is visible. Wipe the bowl after drinking tea. Take a bow and say thank you. It takes nearly 10 years of rigorous training to become a tea master. In a teahouse, everyone is equal. So, in the ancient days, even the samurai left their swords at the teahouse door. I am no samurai, and I had no sword. Instead, I left my angst at the teahouse door to stir zen in a ceramic bowl.
I had pigged out so much in Japan that my inner chef vigorously prodded me to book a seat in the Tsuji Culinary Institute, often described as the world’s greatest, largest, most expensive, best equipped, and toughest cooking school. The school has made a million confectionery dreams come true. I have no sweet tooth, no patisserie aspirations. I can rustle the udon and steam the dim sum. I needed the calming Japanese green tea. A tamaryokucha. Don’t ask me to pronounce it right. I cannot. It is a tangy tea with berry-like aroma and an almondish aftertaste. I knew if I stood on the weighing scale, it would tip dangerously. I hastily ignored the calories. And slurped. Loudly.
