Tokyo. Incredibly familiar and at the same time utterly foreign. It started on our anniversary, when Lisa said. "Let's celebrate our 13th in Japan" I immediately agreed and in less than a week found myself on the overnight to Narita, my camera bag stocked with Lonely Planet and print-outs from the Internet. It wasn't until somewhere between standing in the wrong bus line and getting off at the wrong hotel when I realized that, despite my preparations, I was completely unprepared for Japan. First of all, scanning the street signs and endless array of neon edifices and anime billboards, I had absolutely no idea where I was, since I could not read a thing. Japan, I discovered, while having pockets of tourist-friendly haunts, is a huge, proudly homogeneous society made up of - well - Japanese people. And the vast majority of those people do not speak, read or write English. And shocking as it seemed to my ethnocentric thinking, they don't feel a need to cater to westerners hunting the streets for "cos-girls" and conveyor belt sushi.
We quickly decided to peel off of our original plan of just traversing Tokyo's many neighborhoods and head out of town for a day. After all, living in Singapore, one need not travel to Tokyo to window shop. And if culture and history was what we wanted, someone advised, Kyoto was the place to go. So off we went to find the train station.
The Shinkansen, or "bullet train," is a wonder of modern technology. It's spotlessly clean, comfortable and very, very fast. Averaging about 240 kilometers per hour, with some stretches nosing around the 300 mark, the 520 kilometer trip from Tokyo to Kyoto took just 2 hours. And despite that wind tunnel pace, the train seemed to float, as if on rounded rails of air, barely jiggling or swaying as it weaved its way south. This was definitely not Amtrak, I thought, as the blur of green countryside raced silently by.
The Shinkansen: Tokyo-Kyoto in 2 hours!
Shinkansen: pristine serenity, at 300 km/h.
Kyoto is rich in history and culture, thanks to the oversight of bombing raids during World War II. Scattered throughout this city of a million and a half are temples, shrines and Shogun castles dating back to the 600's or earlier, with many of those original structures still standing today. Others -- the newer replicas -- were rebuilt more recently like, say, in the 16th or 17th century. In other words, the culture, art and architecture in this place is old; and not "old" a la the United States or Australia, but Asian old, which is to say predating by centuries the time when Marco Polo was even a twinkle in old Niccolo's eye.
Nijo Castle (above); Rokuon-Ji Temple ("Golden Pavilion") and Jisho-ja (below).
Now, I wish I could tell about the places we saw, explaining the history of emperors and Shoguns, or the samurai warriors and Buddhist monks who squeaked along the nightingale floors of castles, knelt before gilded shrines in the countless pavilions and temples, or contemplated the graceful lines in the sand or bends of the gnarled branches of bonsai trees in the gardens. But I can't, because as much as I was stirred to the core by the muted stillness within in these noble and elegantly simple structures, I just don't know much about them. I wish I understood the deep sense of peace which enveloped me when I padded across the cool, straw tatami floors in bare feet; a longing perhaps of unrecognized Buddhist sensibilities and values, causing me to commit one day -- perhaps as a very old man -- to return and again walk the Path of Philosophy; this time understanding its true meaning. But as we were in Japan for just a long weekend, I need to table that idyllic dream and focus here on my present bank of knowledge and more earthly desires. In other words, food.
The Path of Philosophy, Kyoto.
Just as Kyoto is a stronghold for Japanese culture and Zen Buddhist understanding, it is also the hallowed home for a culinary discipline to which I have had little exposure: Tofu. Sure, I've had my share of that vegetarian meat substitute - a block of semi-firm, cream-cheese-looking mash - and even some of the better stuff, packed in thin, milky liquid and having the texture of high grade buffalo mozzarella. Invariably, it has been served by proletarians in woven, tie-dyed shirts offering nuts or grains or other organic specialties as an accompaniment. And in nearly every instance it has delivered little in the flavor department and served more as a filler than as the center of edible attention. That's what I thought tofu was, and honestly, I never understood what the fuss was all about. But, I reasoned, since for fifteen hundred years Zen Buddhists here have virtually lived on this soy product, there must be something to it. So I decided that if ever there might be a place where I could resolve my tofu conundrum and satisfy my curiosity about this substance as a source of dining enjoyment, Kyoto would be it.
Upon someone's advice we wandered along a narrow street just beside the Heian-Jingu shrine and, after passing it a few times (unable to read the Japanese name) we wandered into a tiny, local tofu restaurant. We removed our shoes and followed the kimono-clad woman through a small, half-curtained archway and across the woven rice straw floor to a traditional Japanese table where we sat on the floor, facing a small zen garden. The walls hinted of pastel green and the wood trim of the rice paper partitions was natural, imparting the sense of a Japanese sanctuary created by a visionary zen master as a private place for soulful introspection. Sounds were muffled and the few others in the restaurant spoke in gentle, hushed volumes. And it was in this lovely, serene setting that I quietly achieved a higher level of tofu enlightenment.
The menu was elegantly simple and entirely tofu-focused. Our all-tofu lunch, the various portions of which were served in lacquered black and red dishes and pots, included delicate skewered bites of tofu with a miso-infused shitaki mushroom; panko fried tofu engulfing perfectly tender, steamed vegetables; paper thin tofu skins atop slivers of slightly marinated micro-fungus; a delicate bed of baby greens with tofu angel hair with a thin tofu vinaigrette; and the highlight of the meal: a covered clay pot of fresh, uncooked tofu. It rested on a small burner with flames gently licking the sides, which slowly cooked the milky liquid and produced a luscious, barely firm tofu which shimmered pure white and was as light as a feather. The smooth texture on my tongue and clean, eloquent flavor was what I can only describe as True and Pure -- the food of angels served as a cloud. And like an epiphany it opened my mind to the magic that is tofu. We ate slowly and carefully, savoring each new taste. There was no need for loud exclamations or a rolling of eyes over the mouthwatering dishes; it was instead a gentle, personal discovery which we each shared with furtive glances and hushed commentary.
Raw, liquid tofu cooking gently in a clay pot.
The meal was ended magically by a dollop of tofu pudding infused with Japanese lime and ginger. Picture talcum-weight key lime cheesecake without the cloying sweetness or filmy residue. Two small spoonfuls sated and closed our palates in an extraordinarily satisfying way. But then, who would expect anything other than such a perfectly balanced conclusion to our zen-like culinary experience.
I will never forget this small, delicate place where tofu is the guiding principle. And I will, at least in my mind, make periodic pilgrimages back to reset my proper Tofu Thought. Sadly, however, I am unable to identify this wonderful little restaurant by name. But I did pocket their card so that I can one day present it to a cab driver outside of the Kyoto Train Station, look desperately into his eyes and say, "Made onegai shimas." (Please take me there....)
If you seek Tofu Enlightenment (and can read Japanese), this is the place!
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