The night before, we were in an exclusive bar in Gion drinking
chestnut socchu. Our
hostess, a young woman with a
degree in fine arts, kept us company with witty conversations. Before
we left, we asked her what would be a good place for lunch. Seeing that she had trouble answering us (for there
were many good restaurants in
Kyoto), we asked her “where would you eat if it is
going to be your last meal?” Without hesitation, she said she would eat at a certain oden restaurant,
and she added, “our mama-san will make a
reservation
at 12:30 tomorrow for you”. I was surprised and
muttered silently to myself – of all things, the cheap
street food of simmering fried
tofu, fish cake and daikon that salary men ate when they gathered to drink in the
evening after work?
We
arrived at the
restaurant at 12:30 sharp.
There
was a queue outside the noodle place next door, but the only sign that the oden shop
was in business was the noren (welcome
curtain) above its
door. Ototo popped his head in and conversed
with a large man in a white cook’s
uniform and came back out. “Mama-san
made a reservation for two and there is no
room for the three of us”, he said.
My jaw dropped.
Wow, the place was full! “But they will have seats for us in
half an hour”, he quickly added.
The tiny restaurant had only eight seats at its “inverted
L-shaped” counter. We sat at the shorter side, overlooking the
chef, his large tanks of oden, and two couples at the other side of the
counter. The woman of the older couple was
wearing a kimono. She
must
be an affluent lady
as very few Japanese women had money
and taste for kimono these days.
We followed Ototo’s suggestion to drink sake instead
of
socchu. The server brought each of us an
appetizer of
raw fish tataki. Then the chef, a small man with almost silver hair and fierce eyes, gave us his attention. We could select
five oden items at lunch. Our first was an
inch-thick disc of daikon topped with a ladle of beef braised in miso.
Hot mustard was put on the edge of each plate before their
delivery. As I could not eat daikon, I
had a Kyoto ebi-imo instead. My ebi-imo
was six inch long, large and round at one end and skinny at the other, curving
like a deep fried shrimp. It was tender
and tasty. Even better was the beef,
falling apart as I picked it up with my chopsticks. Usually beef cooked this long tended to be
tough, but not in this case. The
sweetness of miso was tempered and was in harmony with everything on the plate.
The next item was a cabbage
roll larger than my fist, stuffed with chicken.
That I did not like much. I was
getting full but the chef was waiting for my next selection. He picked out a piece of fish cake, a four
inch square with thin edges and a bulged center, which he cut into four
squares for me. The surprisingly firm
and bouncy texture testified to its excellent quality. The presence of a couple of fine fish bones chopped so short that they were no bother Earlier, I saw the woman in kimono, risking a spill, picked up
her plate to drink the broth and sighed
with pleasure. I did the same thing and
the chef gave me an approved look.
After a skewer of
kinko nuts and a knot of konbu, I signaled no more food; I was too full to eat any more. I have not known that oden could be so satisfying but now
I know.
