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I've been struggling with a dilemma: How do I write on the histrionics in the US Senate, or in the Indian Parliament, or before Dilip Kumar's mansion? Can't face the castration since I said that American hypocrisy won't let it happen. Can't assail the Samajwadi bacteria since I vehemently oppose all kinds of reservations. Can't rage at the half-monty Sena protesters since I collapsed laughing at the chaddi morcha... Today's temporal affairs exemplifies the Theatre of the Absurd. And I need a break from it. So, I sketch and write on tempural affairs. But do not despair: I'm abrasive, no matter what my subject...

Eons ago, Bombay had a Japanese restaurant called Sakura at the then-new Oberoi; it had chefs from Tokyo, sukiyaki and kimonoed babes. All of which we chased out simply by not patronising it. This is the one instance when I can't fault the city's noble diners: I had to be dragged there since the only dish I could stand was tempura, the deep-fried prawns and veggies. Years later, I learned that the name was derived from the Catholic fasting period of Quattor Tempora when only seafood was eaten - the technique of frying itself being introduced to Japan by Portuguese missionaries in the 16th century. It hardens my belief that any indigenous cuisine can only gain from external influences. Of which, Japan allowed none.

The ancestors of the Japanese came from China via Chosen, ie, modern Korea. Around 600 BC, Japan's Caucasoid aboriginal inhabitants, the Ainus, were pushed to the north islands by Emperor Jimmu. Since then, practically every element of Japanese culture was borrowed and adapted from Cathay: Kanji ideograms became Kana phonetic symbols; Buddhist monks of the sects of Amida and Zen, along with their faith, brought in martial arts, vegetarianism, chopsticks, soya beans and tea; and Chinese music, played on the silk-stringed koto, became an essential feature of the courts. Japanese art, calligraphy, pottery and architecture - each has its origins in China. Even the name of the country, Dai Nippon, "land of the rising sun," was coined by a Chinese emperor who addressed it as Tai Nyih Pung Kok, "Great Sun Rise Kingdom." Marco Polo miswrote this as "Chipango" - whence we got "Japan."

What ancient Japan couldn't afford to borrow was China's vivid cuisine with its bounty of raw materials. For, only 16 per cent of Japan's mountainous land is arable, with most of it given over to gohan, the "honourable food" of rice. The staple fare of Japan still remains rice and fish - with shoyu (soy sauce) as the cornerstone of its cooking. Although birds were frequently eaten, pork and beef were embraced only over the last 130 years, when Japan finally threw open its doors to the West.

The keywords to its cuisine are entrenched in Japan's temporal affairs and spiritual beliefs - isolation, austerity, elegance, respect of nature, and aesthetics. Incursion by foreigners were ruthlessly repelled by samurais, and when the wolf of Imperialism in the sheep's skin of religion and trade threatened, Lord Iyeyasu Tokugawa (on whom "Toranaga" in Clavel's Shogun is modelled), sealed the coasts in 1636 AD. Japan stayed shut for 200 years, virtually an island prison. Time, and gastronomy, stayed frozen in its feudal, Old World air.

The growth of Shinto, the native form of nature/ancestor worship, heralded the Meiji Restoration of Emperor Mutsihito, who ushered the nation into the Industrial Age. Kisetsukan, the veneration of nature, directed that foods appear at their appointed seasons, and intrinsic flavours remain unadulterated by sauces - as in raw- seafood sashimi. The presentation of food is magnificent, symmetrically arranged in patterned fan-shaped, oblong or square dishes made of porcelain, glass or lacquered wood. The cutting of vegetables into uniform shapes is an art-form in itself, with each shape imitating elements of nature, eg, hangetsugiri "half-moon" and kikukagiri "chrysanthemum." Cellophane noodles are called harusame or "spring rain," and root-noodles as shirataki or "shining waterfall." The visual harmony, balance and austere portions of nouvelle cuisine owe much to the Japanese table.

The philosophy of Shinto, principles of Zen, poetic inspiration and aesthetic expression are all very well for art journals and prefaces of cookery books... But what about the taste of the food itself? Well, the inscrutable mysticism, restraint and screened nuances inherent in the Japanese character extends to cuisine: Just as I was initially confounded by the few strokes of sumi-e ink-painting, which leaves viewers to mentally fill in the missing elements, or by the deliberate omission of words in the haiku, which heightens the effect of the many-layered poem, so also the pleasures of eating nori-maki (cold sour rice, bundled in colder seaweed, stuffed with coldest raw fish) elude me. Over time, I grew to covet many of Japan's fine arts and its unparalleled eye for visual beauty and perfection, but, my I-jin barbarity still prevents me from sighing over its food, music and Kabuki.

My memories of Dai Nippon consist of delicate shoji screens, tiny gardens of raked pebbles, crushing crowds, clinical cleanliness, stunning mountainscapes, giant Buddhas, Bullet trains, the electronics Mecca of Akihabara, the golden pagodas of Kinkakuji Pavilion, haute couture as streetwear, the serendipitous discovery of Himeji Castle, so familiar from Kurasawa films... All, unfortunately, underlined by pangs of hunger. Given the Yen rate and the ultra-high standard of living, even B-grade restaurants are prohibitive. My main sustenance was Shakey's Pizza. The times when I did eat in style, the frustration of paying obscene amounts for dishes like yodufu - beancurd floating in dashi, the ubiquitous stock made from kelp and dried bonito - obliterated the benevolence inspired by the ambiance and service.

One of the few times my mouth watered for something Japanese (other than men), was when I passed a yakitori bar in Kyoto. The equivalent of our kebabs, yakitori is chicken meat or mince-balls threaded on bamboo skewers with green peppers, mushrooms and onions, basted with soy sauce, sansho (Japanese pepper), mirin (sweet cooking wine), and grilled over coals. Such stalls are streetcorner affairs, and I thank the kamis for them...

It was at the Benihana of Tokyo chain that I got more familiar with Japanese food. The indoor waterfalls were so imaginative, and my mom's pleading so persistent, that I put aside my misgivings. At Las Vegas, I experienced teppan-yaki: Steaks, chicken, prawns, scallops and vegetables are sliced, tossed and braised on the inset hot-plate with such entertaining and rapid motions that dining turns to theatre. Diners lift morsels directly from the teppan and dip them into sauces based on - what else - soy sauce, mirin, radish and sugar. In Manhattan, I tried saba no nanbani, deep-fried mackerel covered with a sauce made of - what else - soy, mirin and vinegar. In LA, I had shabu shabu, Japan's version of Mongolian Hotpot - only, it flunks due to the seaweed stock. In London, I was floored by succulent Kobe steaks: the cattle are fed grain and beer, some are even massaged - all in anticipation of the slaughter block.

I found that as long as I kept to agemono (fried stuff) and meats, the food was palatable. But I just couldn't stomach the soups, stews and steamed dishes. The reason's obvious: all Japanese seasoning is a permutation of soy sauce, mirin, horseradish, sugar and dashi. What variety or magic can possibly be conjured from these? It's not as if Japan can't afford to import spices and herbs! For that matter, Japs have been cultivating the hawk's-claw chilli (which the Portuguese introduced from the Americas) since nearly 300 years; by some quirk, it's only used with agemono. While Japan has welcomed McDonald's, massu produk'shunu, baseball and beefu, its cuisine stays stubbornly inviolate.

Forget Steak Tartare and sashimi, I can't grasp the desire to eat even raw salads. The ritual of odori ("dance") in which a live shrimp is cleaned in 5 seconds flat, then grabbed by its still- wriggling tail and swallowed, gives me gooseflesh. Civilisation is Man's forward march with the discovery of fire - not dining a la Neanderthal! The contradiction in the Japanese character, which exalts the daily soaking of the body in scalding water and then stuffs it with raw flesh, baffles me. The Zen quality of Yugen, literally "what lies beneath the surface" and is "obscure and dark," should be ample grounds for a rethink. Of course, Americans have taken to sashimi like fish to water, but then, that's also the nation which once fondled pet rocks...

When the West with its limited range of seasonings waxes ad nauseum about Japanese cookery being "the most elegantly simple cuisine in the world" where "sauce is never allowed to become the main element of the dish," I can only think of the other synonym for "simple." Sure, the food's healthy and obviously works for Japs. But if an incipient cuisine can find place in gourmet columns, I can't see why the humble yet zingier zhunka-bhaakar should have no lauding partisans.

The world at large is overawed, as I am, by Japan's supreme virtues of loyalty, self-sacrificing patriotism, and racial genius for adapting and often transcending everything from cameras to cars to suit its purpose. But is there need to transfer that admiration to its rudimentary gastronomy, too?

Illustration: Varsha Bhosle

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