DashiDashi

A good book is like the oxygen I can’t live without. If I ever carelessly leave a good book on the bench in the park, the first thing that pops up in my mind is to instantly click my way to Amazon to get a new copy. There’s  no question of that.

My fascination with a really good book does not end there. Even though I have barely gulped down half of the chapters when I lose the book, I would place another order for the author’s Sichuan cookery book- just because I’m totally all over the author’s impressive descriptions on Sichuanese cuisine in the good book.

I acquainted with Mr A Bourdain’s  Shark’s Fin & Sichuan Pepper during my monthly visit to the Foyles. There were the expected ‘venturous’ meals along  with lip-smacking food diary and interesting traveling tales, but the book didn’t really satisfy my hunger because the details were rather skin-deep.

The name- Fuchsia Dunlop once flashed in my mind. I knew that she had stayed in China for some time and that she was known reputably as the Chinese food expert in the UK. But I was rather skeptical about Dunlop and doubted her knowledge about Chinese food. In fact, as a British-born Chinese,  I was rather annoyed by the absence of a well-known Chinese cook to represent Chinese food in UK.

To my astonishment, Dunlop is a great writer with substance. It didn’t take me long to grow affectionate toward her clear and approachable tales. I looked up to her even more when she depicted her  one year-and-a-half long stay in Sichuan in 1994 which was supported by the British Council China easy scholarships. She was extremely devoted in discovering the age-old food culture in Chengdu as she immersed herself amongst the chefs and the locals. She even went the extra mile in her quest of learning by coaxing for a 3-month professional chef’s training course in Chinese.

Most restaurants, when having moved site within the last month, might think to inform you of the fact when you ring to book a table. Not Sakura.

So I traipsed up to their old front door, running a few minutes late, to be greeted by the absence of the usual red lanterns and the apperance of a small sign announcing their recent move to 23 Conduit Street.

A new ‘update’ section has been added to the old review here.

PS: The TVs playing bizarre Japanese game shows and documentaries are no longer there. Cry or cheer as you will.

“Do you want anything from Japan?  [Insert name here of family friend] is going in October, so get your orders in now.”

Requesting a sample of the entire food produce of Japan seemed like a tall order, so I settled for a matcha whisk. Lo and behold, I’m now the proud owner of a proper (and rather expensive) matcha whisk and bowl. Now to find out how to use it.

Serendipitously, David from JING Tea had offered to host a matcha-making demostration, so one blustery tube-strike-ridden evening, we convened at Tsuru Bankside, along with Su-Lin from Tamarind and Thyme for some matcha madness.
So, how do you make matcha? Well, first you work the matcha into a loose paste with a splash of water until the lumps go away. Add more water, then go crazy with the whisk until you get that lovely froth. Or: you can watch thisvideo by JING Tea and read all about it here. Let’s just say, it’s harder than it looks.

I ended up with a less-than-creamy, large-bubbled froth. Tip: for a better foam, don’t use as much water.

Taste-wise? Wow. The matcha was sweet and thick, without the bitter edge you find in some matcha (including the one I tasted at the tea ceremony at the British Museum). I’ve ordered a packet to see if makes a difference in desserts — well, you know what they say about wine and cooking. Results pending.

Genmaicha

We also tasted some of JING Tea’s other samples: a toasty nutty Genmaicha (green tea with toasted brown rice kernels), cosy comforting Hojicha (a low-caffeine roasted green tea), cute-as-buttons Jasmine Pearls (apparently one of their biggest sellers), and some ‘very special’ hand-rolled umami-rich Gyokuro. For those who like their teas in limited edition, apparently only 20kg of this particular tea is made each year, and JING Tea have bought 2kg of it. The umami taste was subtle but noticeable, coating the mouth with an unusual feel for a tea. Is it worth the price? At £12 for a 10g bag, it’s not cheap, but it’s still cheaper per cup than a daily Starbucks. [There's also another (presumably not hand-rolled?) Gyokuro on their website for around half the price.]

We rounded off the evening with some of my (hastily made) home-made matcha cream profiteroles. The matcha in the whipped cream really took the edge of the heaviness — hence our ability to get through most of a full tupperware. Unfortunately, though possessing many other positive properties, matcha doesn’t seem to negate calories. Shame.

All in all, tasting tea is a lot like tasting wine — the mouth-feel, the taste notes (a hint of smoke, roasted nuts, fruit?), and the feeling that my palate is severely under-developed. Thankfully, my liver and I have absolutely no qualms in consuming copious amounts of tea to rectify this.

Time for a cuppa.

Thanks to David at JING Tea and Tsuru Bankside for a great tea-filled evening.

It’s summer. It’s warm. (Yes, even here in England.) Therefore, it’s time to eat cold noodles.

(Can you tell I’m going on holiday in less than 12 hours, and attempting to write the world’s shortest blogpost on soba dipping sauce?)

So without further ado, I bid you au revoir for now. If you’re an oyster in the south of France, watch out. I’m coming your way.

In this Information Age where anything you can’t find on Wikipedia (or Facebook) isn’t worth knowing and where most arguments can be conclusively settled with a web-enabled phone and Google, it can be a disconcerting experience when, posed with a seemingly simple query, the World Wide Web shrugs its metaphorical shoulders and goes back to its prime purpose: supplying YouTube videos of sleepy kittens to the masses.

In this case, the topic was hand-made soba noodles and the burning question: can a layperson (i.e. someone who’s not spent ten years up a mountain with a soba master) make them at home?

Apart from an article in the LA Times, and a few whispers in the blogosphere (some tales of success, some of woe), there seemed to be little written, in English at least, on this pursuit. Was this a fool’s errand? Or was this the best-kept secret of soba-fiends around the world?

I had one shred of hope. In his section on noodles, Tsuji gives a simple recipe for soba or udon, depending on what flour you use. If Tsuji expected a Western audience to be able to recreate this recipe two decades ago, then the holy grail of home-made soba might just exist.

Unfortunately, back on Google, there was a resounding silence on where to find the actual ingredients: specifically, soba (buckwheat) itself. No matter how many variations of ‘soba’, ‘buckwheat’, and ‘flour’ I threw at the search box, I couldn’t find a single UK importer/vendor of Japanese soba-ko.

In the end, I bought a bag of the only buckwheat flour I could find, the Doves Farm brand, and armed with the 80:20 golden ratio of buckwheat to plain white flour, a large bowl, and cup of mildly-salted water, I got to work.

Four hours later (including resting the dough), the verdict was in: although the buckwheat flour gave off a strong nutty flavour when kneaded, the final cooked result, though fun to make, lacked the bite and flavour of store-bought packet soba.

Undeterred (once bitten, twice as hungry), for the next attempt I added a tablespoon of matcha powder to the flour mix. [Blame all the matcha madness, not me.] At this point, the flour took on a very pale green tint. It was only after adding water that that familiar mossy-green hue appeared, and the real fear of serving up Ninja-Turtle Noodles arose.

Sadly, once again my home-made soba failed the taste test. If anything, the matcha made the soba more brittle and a bit grainy.

For now then, the soba-trials are on hold until I can get my hands on some proper soba-ko.

To commiserate, readers, tell me: what’s been your biggest kitchen failure to date?

Somen, according to Tsuji: A very fine white noodle, made from a hard-wheat dough slightly moistened with cottonseed or sesame seed oil.

Hiyashi Somen: A widely popular summer meal, normally garnished with just chopped spring onions.

Summer has yet to arrive officially in the UK — it’s made a few impromtu visits, but nothing definite — but I thought I’d given this summer a dish a go. Bare bones of a recipe below.

Better than Nobu’s. High praise indeed from one of Reiko’s students about her miso black cod.  Tasting it myself, I had to agree. Rich butter-soft white flakes framed in that craving-inducing caramelised coating, served straight from under the grill in Reiko’s kitchen. And the best part?  Now I could cook it too.

Having spent the last few months under the tutelage of a pictureless (if brilliant) cookbook, it was time to go in search of a real-life Japanese cookery teacher. Who better than Reiko Hashimoto-Lambert of Hashi, a Japanese cookery class and catering company, who kindly agreed to be interviewed and have me sit in on her class.

Five students in all, we perched primly round the kitchen table in Reiko’s lovely Wimbledon home. Tonight’s menu: beef-and-vegetable rolls, black cod marinated in miso, a spicy white miso soup (Reiko’s own special recipe), and wild mushroom rice.

As this was the Gourmet Course class, basic cookery skills were generally assumed, and the class pitched in with tasks such as rolling up thin slices of beef filled with carrot and green beans, and shaping minced-prawn-and-chicken into quenelles for the soup. For the rest, we let Reiko take charge, while we munched our way through her (and our) handiwork.

For me, the best part of the class was listening to Reiko herself — explaining how to make and store your own teriyaki sauce, encouraging us to taste-test three different types of miso to appreciate their stark differences, and of course, learning the secret of a great miso marinade (hint: lots of patience). Like all good teachers, she really engaged with her class, as well as showering us with nifty cookery tips.

Afterwards, stomach happily brimming with an evening’s worth of learning, I got the chance to ask Reiko a few questions about the simple art of Japanese cookery…

Have you noticed a growing interest in Japanese cooking over the last few years?

Yes, I started to teach in London about six years ago and Japanese food took off about that time, so in a way, I was very lucky. Actually I started off catering first, but I really enjoy the teaching, I get to be more interactive with people and I get this immediate reaction which is really nice.

Who taught you to cook?

I’m very self-taught, but I’d have to say my mother. She was always cooking, she never ever bought ready-meals, and you know when you make dashi stock.  The katsuobushi, my mother used to shave it every morning. Even at that time, that was really something — people usually buy it already shaven.

Do you consider your cooking to belong to any particular region of Japan?

I think my dishes are really mixed because I lived all different places – I was brought up in Kyoto, then moved to Hong Kong, then to Tokyo, and now here.

Do you often think about what ingredients you can substitute in the Japanese dishes you teach?

Absolutely, I do that all the time. It puts off people if they have to go to a Japanese store just to get one daikon radish. That’s the aim, for people to be able to cookJapanese food by going to the local supermarket….

How important is presentation when it comes to food?

I think presentation is very important. Obviously the flavour is the most important thing, but presentation I would say is very close. Not only the plate, but the way you present it, it makes a big difference.

Lastly, what other cuisines do you enjoy cooking?

I cook French, Italian, Thai…  Chinese I find is very difficult, Japanese food is so much simpler. I like everything, but probably on daily basis I like to eat Japanese or Italian, I think in a way they are very similar.

According to Tsuji, fruit is the “dessert” of the Japanese meal. Traditionally, sweets are served after a formal meal as an accompaniment to matcha tea and designed ‘to complement the flavour of the tea itself’.

This didn’t bode well for me, given that from a young age I’ve insisted on the existence of the ‘dessert stomach’ — a mutually exclusive domain to the ‘main meal stomach’ and especially the ‘green vegetables stomach’.

Sure enough, Tsuji’s Sweets and Confections section is filled with such delights as three types of sweet red-bean paste, a sweet potato puree, and mochi. All flavours that fit in the postdoctoral level of the acquired-taste syllabus, at least for anyone who’s grown up with the kind of desserts that are nothing more than cunning ways to ingest large amounts of fat and sugar as quickly as possible.

So instead, with the excuse of the last few days of Chinese New Year, I decided to make that popular dimsum dessert: mango pudding.

This being my mother’s signature dessert — we bring two giant bowls of the stuff to parties and never bring back left-overs — I’ll be a good daughter and not reveal the recipe to the entire blogsphere. However, a google search for mango pudding will turn up a few ideas. Hint: substitute fresh cream (double, single, your choice) for the evaporated milk that’s quoted in most online recipes. Come on, people, it’s not 1940s wartime, loosen the purse-strings and belt-buckles.

After all, if you want a healthy dessert, there’s always fruit.