by Elizabeth Andoh
Translated
literally, some oshinagaki, or Japanese restaurant menus,
could be mistaken for poetry, especially those that are penned
in flowing brush strokes on gossamer rice paper scrolls. Dishes
with names such as tsukimi wan ("moon-viewing" broth),
momiji oroshi ("red maple" sauce), and shigure ni
("autumn rains") read like an ode to autumn. As fall turns to
winter and icicle radishes reach their peak of flavor, furofuki
("steaming hot, hot-tub" vegetables), and mizore ae ("sleet"
sauce) appear frequently on menus in traditional-style restaurants.
Poetic names such
as these evoke special images to the educated Japanese palate, but
they also convey specific information about the food. Tsukimi wan
will most likely contain a perfectly round poached egg, or perhaps
bean curd cut in a perfect circle to mimic the full harvest moon.
(By the way, a poached egg on a hamburger has been an autumn special
menu item at McDonald's in Japan for many years now; they call it a
tsukimi baaga or "moon-viewing" burger.) Momiji oroshi
signals the inclusion of fiery red togarashi pepper in the
grated radish condiment often served with fried or simmered foods.
Shigure ni alerts diners to expect an intensely ginger-flavored
soy stewed food. Versatile daikon radishes are enjoyed throughout
the year. Furofuki daikon, piping hot chunks of radish served
with fragrant, seasoned miso, is a cold weather favorite. The furo
refers to the neck-deep, hot baths the Japanese love to soak in, the
fuki refers to blowing away steam. Grated radish suspended
in a sweet and sour sauce, what the Japanese call mizore ae,
looks very much like the chilling sleet that coats bare branches and
blankets wintry city streets.
Aside from frequent
seasonal and poetic allusions, Japanese food names often derive from
legendary characters. Best known, perhaps, is the cucumber-loving
water sprite called Kappa, who lends his name to kappa maki,
rolls of sushi stuffed with cucumbers.
In Japanese folklore,
two creatures, foxes (kitsune) and badgers (tanuki),
have been known for their deceitful ways. Like their Western counterpart,
kitsune are thought to be sly and wily. They often assume human
form in Japanese fairytales in order to trick people; indeed, they
are "foxy." Because their pelts are a golden brown color (what the
Japanese call kitsune iro, or "fox colored"), and because they
are said to like the taste of abura age (fried bean curd),
reference to kitsune on a menu will typically signal the inclusion
of fried bean curd in the dish. Throughout Japan, kitsune udon,
or "fox" noodles are thick, slithery white noodles in broth, topped
with slightly sweet, soy-simmered, fried bean curd. In a recipe, kitsune
iro will mean food has been fried, sauteed or toasted to a golden
brown color. Most storybook tanuki badgers look rather cute
pounding their distended bellies under a full moon. But beware: they
are known primarily for their nasty tricks. No wonder then, that tanuki
noodles are garnished with only scraps of fried tempura batter (ten
kasu, in Japanese). Tricking people into not noticing that the
shrimp are "missing," is typical of deceitful badger ways. The same
soup and buckwheat noodles with fried batter has a different, rather
chic, image in the Kansai region, especially Osaka. There, ten
kasu is often called haikara, a reference to the foreign
fashion of high collared shirts at the turn of the century. In Kansai,
tanuki soba is the name for buckwheat noodles topped with bean
curd; the cunning deception being substituting soba for udon noodles.
Foxes play yet
another role in Japanese folklore: they act as assistants to the deity
Inari. Because of this association of foxes, bean curd, and Inari
shrines, the slightly sweet, soy-simmered, fried bean curd pouches
that are stuffed with vinegared rice are known as inari-zushi.
In the Kansai region, the pouches are triangular (mimicing fox ears!),
while in Kanto, inari-zushi are typically rectangular, or pillow-shaped.
An additional
association of foxes and bean curd reveals yet another menu mystery:
Shinoda-maki means something will be wrapped in bean curd.
The Shinoda forest, not far from Osaka, is inhabited by foxes in several
local folk tales. On many shojin, or temple vegetarian, menus,
carrots, radishes, mountain ferns, or burdock will be wrapped in sheets
of bean curd, then tied with ribbons of kampyo gourd. These
sausage-like logs are simmered in a sweetened soy broth before being
sliced into individual rounds.
Place names provide
inspiration for menus, too. The Tatsuta River, near Nara, is famous
for its red autumn maples. If a menu includes tatsuta age you
can be sure you'll be served crispy fish or chicken that was marinated
in soy sauce before it was dredged in cornstarch and deep fried. The
cornstarch coating absorbs some of the soy, so that when it is fried
it takes on a burnished, russet color. Locales lend their identity
to the names of certain foods, too. For example, isobe ("seashore"),
indicates that nori (laver, harvested from the sea) has been
used.
Often menu items
have names related to their shape. Shigi nasu are long, slender
eggplants that have been slit lengthwise, grilled, then slathered
with savory miso sauce. Ordinarily when foods such as eggplant, bean
curd or even scallops are skewered and topped with miso it is referred
to as dengaku, an allusion to a scarecrow-like dancing figure
in Japanese traditional stage arts. But when the word shigi
appears on the menu, it refers to the long beak of the shigi bird.
Tazuna means "rein of a horse" and indicates a twisted configuration,
not unlike curling streamers. Foods such as kamaboko (fish
sausage) and konnyaku (a jelly-like loaf made from a tuber
vegetable) lend themselves to this decorative presentation. If tazuna-zushi
appears on a menu, look for logs of pressed vinegared rice, topped
with foods set in diagonal stripes, somewhat like a regimental tie
pattern.
Like the Earl
of Sandwich, whose fondness for putting sliced meat between two pieces
of bread lent his name to the now-familiar sandwich, still other names
refer to famous people. Takuan Osho, a 17th century monk who perfected
a pickling process bestows his name to takuan-zuke . I have
a particular fondness for these crunchy, yellow pickled radishes,
especially the deeply golden-toned ones that have been allowed to
mellow in roasted rice-bran for several years with dried persimmon
peels. Just when you think you've understood the system, you run up
against those Japanese foods that have more than one name for the
exact same thing. These multiple labels seem assigned in an arbitrary
fashion without regard to the geography, gender, or generation of
the speaker. In fact, I used to think these sorts of double labels
were created just to test the patience of gaijin trying to
learn the language. At the supermarket you ask where the renkon
(lotus root) is, and are told the hasu (lotus root) is over
there. At the sushi bar, you comment on the wonderful herbaceous flavor
of shiso (a flat leafed herb), and are told that indeed oba
(the same flat leafed herb) lends a lovely accent to food. So tell
me, when Japanese moms are shaping rice into triangles, spheres, or
thick logs for their kids' lunch, are they making omusubi (rice
"sandwiches")? or onigiri (rice "sandwiches")? I think I'll
stand at Shibuya station one morning and take a poll among commuters.