A Cook's Tour_ In Search of the Perfect Meal - Anthony Bourdain [78]
Another appetizer-sized offering appeared: soba tsubu tororo mushi, buckwheat in grated yam paste. This was a whole new taste terrain now, products I hadn’t even imagined eating a few days earlier. Amadai kabura surinagashi, a fish course of sweet sea bream wrapped in yuba (a soy protein) with grated turnip came served in a clay pot, followed by a meat course – gyu shiromiso nikomi, a piece of tender beef wrapped in baby bok choy in white miso broth – and then another fish course – komochi konbu, seaweed marinated in rice vinegar and soy with herring roe. The herring lay their eggs directly into the seaweed, so I was enjoying the stuff nearly in situ. It was followed by tokobushi daizu hijiki – steamed rice with abalone, soy beans, and brown algae. Don’t think algae sounds good? It is.
My head was swimming now, a pleasantly intoxicated dream state. I no longer knew or even cared what century it was. I was numb from the waist down, circulation long ago cut off to my legs. The heavily painted faces and costumes of my geisha companions, the spare black-and-white walls, the choo-choo train of tiny plates of jewel-like dishes – everything melted together into that rare full mind/body narcotized zone where everything/nothing matters. You know you’re having one of the meals of your life but are no longer intimidated by it. Consciousness of time and expense go out the window. Cares about table manners disappear. What happens next, later, or even tomorrow fades into insignificance. You become a happy passenger, completely submitting to whatever happens next, confident that somehow the whole universe is in particularly benevolent alignment, that nothing could possibly distract or detract from the wonderfulness of the moment.
A small stone pot was slid across the floor on a tray and set up over a little stone brazier with two pieces of glowing charcoal. Kuwai modoki, grated and fried ‘arrowheads,’ served in red miso soup. I had no idea what an arrowhead was, but I was way past caring. I knew I was in expert hands. Whatever an arrowhead was, I knew it would be great. And it was. Many, many more sakes came my way – and were returned. I didn’t know how the two geishas – tiny middle-aged women – were putting it all away so well. After a final course of dessert sorbets and local fruit, I was damn near goofy with pleasure. The two geishas retreated to the far end of the room and, standing in front of a shimmering gold lacquer screen, began to perform. One played a syamisen, a sort of long-necked string instrument she struck with a pick, while the other beat lightly on a drum, whose tone she modulated and manipulated by strings held against her shoulder. They played and sang. One danced. You’ve seen bits of this kind of traditional Japanese dance – on television or in movies – and you’ve heard that high-pitched warbling, and you’ve thought, Jesus! It sounds like someone’s torturing a cat! You just hadn’t had enough sake to appreciate it. You weren’t sitting in that timeless dining room, after a long bath, reflecting on those mountains. You hadn’t eaten the meal I’d just enjoyed. The music was lovely, the slow-motion dance mesmerizing to watch. I felt like a feudal lord. I no longer cared about the silly clothes I was wearing. In fact, I felt cool. It was good to be the king. I was ready to order out the cavalry, burn castles, strategize with my warlords in the rock garden, think deep thoughts while I watched the winter cherry blossoms bloom.
I walked carefully back to the sleeping area, where a futon had already been unrolled and turned down for me. I got under the covers, and one of the screen walls was pulled