The author learns why the Japanese eat what they eat

Cover Story

October 12, 2011|By Debra Samuels, Globe Correspondent

(JOSH REYNOLDS FOR THE BOSTON…)

TOKYO - At the tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurant in Ameyoko, a warren of open-air wholesale food stalls in an urban shopping area, the line snakes down the alley. Diners are willing to wait for one of 12 counter seats and gargantuan gyoza, also known as pot stickers, pleated pillows stuffed with a savory pork filling.

This is always our first stop when we return to Tokyo, which is our second hometown (our first is Lexington). I have been coming to our adopted country for 40 years with my husband, Dick, a university professor. He’s on sabbatical and we are back for a six-month stay. We have lived here for a total of 11 years and this month, I wrote about all my culinary experiences in “My Japanese Table,’’ beginning with a breakfast of grilled fish, rice, pickles, and miso soup from our very first home stay in a rural area on the southern island, Kyushu. There wasn’t a single item in the bowl that I could identify. My education had begun.

After all this time, and having lived through many faux pas - I learned that you never stick your chopsticks’ points down in the food, you do slurp noodles, and you don’t finish everything on your plate - I mastered the essentials of home cooking and began teaching in Boston. In our American kitchen, miso soup became a staple. The fried noodle dish yakisoba, originally street food, is another favorite, as is roll-your-own sushi and, of course, pot stickers. Both yakisoba and gyoza, by the way, have Chinese origins, but the Japanese have put their own spin on them.

We first went to Japan as young married students on a Colgate University study abroad program. We were high school sweethearts from Long Island, N.Y., and I had never been out of the country. I grew up with standard American fare mixed with my family’s Eastern European Jewish cuisine. The only spices in my mother’s pantry were salt, pepper, and paprika. With one year of Japanese language at home, then one month of intensive classes at a Tokyo language school, we began our stay, not knowing at the time that it would extend over so many decades.

Five years later, with a 5-month-old baby in tow, we returned so Dick could write his dissertation. “What will the baby eat?’’ my mother said.

“Tofu,’’ I replied. She cried.

As it turned out, Brad’s first food was minuscule boiled whitebait mixed into rice porridge. “Brain food,’’ said my neighbor Kai-san, who became my lifeline. I shopped daily with a group of mothers, babies strapped to our backs while we rode on adult tricycles with huge baskets between the back wheels. These women tutored me in the markets and kitchen, and included our little family in the rhythms of their lives.