It's been a while, hasn't it? Welcome to a one-time revival of my old blog. Last month, I took a trip up to Hokkaido to visit family, and while I was there I had one of the best Japanese meals of my life. In Sapporo, I visited Hanakouji Sawada, which recently got awarded its 3rd Michelin Star (amusingly, chatting with the chef, when he got the letter from the Michelin Guide he was worried that it was to let him know they were downgrading him from 2 stars only 1 . . . he was as surprised as anybody that it was an upgrade instead). They're not pretentious, they're not even that fancy, but everything they do, they do perfectly
Everything is calculated, everything is calibrated. I remember laughing out loud as I watched one of the chefs go to the steamer trays (checking the thermometer and adjusting the heat to make sure it was at the right temperature) to remove not any food, but simply the dishware used to serve another dish--every aspect of the meal is decided down to the very degree of the plate on which it is served. And, well, that's the kind of care that shows
I still don't have a camera (part of the reason I stopped updating this thing), sorry. So while I can't show y'all pictures (and the food was, you know, come on--it's high-quality Japanese food so of course it was incredibly beautiful. Ugh), the next best thing I can do is try to describe it to you. This is obviously going to be way too long for a facebook post, and this blog is the only venue I have in which I can do my inadequate best to try to share this meal with you all. Thanks for reading
This is the experience you get at a world-class Japanese restaurant. Made me proud to be Japanese
Hankouji Sawada is located on the third floor of a nondescript building that wouldn't be out of place in Seattle's International District (all of you reading probably have different go-to comparisons for a slightly seedy commercial district, that one's mine). It started pouring as I got off the train, and the walk from the station to the restaurant got me soaked, so I ducked into the stairwell to at least change into a dry collared shirt--and yup, linoleum stairs with a metal rail and fluorescent lighting. Certainly not the kind of building you'd expect to find a restaurant of this caliber.
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| Fine, you can have some photos to look at. I stole this one from Tabelog, i.e. Japanese Yelp |
I got to sit at the counter, and spent most of my meal enjoying the show in the kitchen, as the chef/owner's station was literally within arm's reach for the entire meal. The service was impeccable but friendly (the staff kept looking at my notes over my shoulder, my tiny bilingual scrawl, and laughing). For readers concerned with technical details in the kitchen, it was a pretty basic setup:
- One person on pantry, who I swear looked like she was barely out of high school, if even (she later told me that she just started in April--she's living the dream);
- One person bouncing between supporting pantry and the hot stations, ditto looked to be 25 at the oldest, that's me being generous (The chef later told me that that's his son! He says he's not sure if he wants to take over this restaurant or open his own);
- The sous chef, working both saute and grill, touches of gray at his temples (as is tradition for sous chefs, only once in two hours did I see anything even resembling a smile on his face--which was when I learned that he grew up in the same small town my family is from, so I told him I'd be hopping on the train after the meal and I was planning on visiting the local favorite fried chicken shop. He grinned at that. I mean, it's really good fried chicken); and
- The chef/owner, mostly in charge of plating (in contrast with the sous, he was never without a smile--and why shouldn't he smile?? He's one of the best in the world at his chosen craft, and he knows it)
These four worked in near-silent cooperation, putting an equal level of care into my individual dishes as they did into the trays they filled with rounds of dishes for the private room of 6 people. Each course timed perfectly so that I never felt rushed and never had to wait. What I'm trying to say is, yeah, they know what they're doing. Here's what I ate:
The first course was ikura, for which Hokkaido is rightly famous. It was served on a mountain potato cake, with a gluey texture and subtle sweetness. The barest garnish of numbing sancho leaves and aggressively citrusy yuzu rind kept the whole dish bright, and the dashi jelly tied it all together. The choice of nothing but soft textures was a surprising one (reinforced by the uniform temperature, cool but not cold), and yet the lack of distraction highlighted the unbelievable quality of the ikura--each distinct salmon roe had a firm texture that resisted for just a fraction of a second before bursting with primordial briny goodness. And yet, strangely enough, the unexpected star of the dish was the dashi jelly--echoing the flashes of brine from the ikura, it held up for the barest moment before melting on the tongue and releasing the savory dashi flavor. The kind of dish I can conceive of but will never have access to the ingredients or the technique to balance out so perfectly. So uhh, yeah, that's how we started
The second dish was a fried set. Interestingly enough, the tempura ingredients were served piping hot, while the dry-fried ingredients were served at room temperature. Contrast in flavors, textures, and temperatures is a hallmark of Japanese fine dining, making each bite a separate little joy. The kabocha pumpkin tempura was predictably excellent, the dry-fried ginkgo nuts were perfect little bits of autumn flavor, but the clear rockstar of this dish was the corn tempura--which, at the end of summer when I was there, was at its peak of sweetness. Rather than separate kernels mixed into a fritter, the corn had actually been delicately sliced off the cob into a little 2"x2" square of batter-fried corn goodness. You could pick it up with your hands and take a bite like a cracker, not that I would do such a thing (I absolutely did such a thing). No dipping sauce or anything like that, just a touch of salt to accentuate this presentation of the top-quality produce that everyone in Japan associates with Hokkaido
The third dish was in many ways the highlight--kegani crab, perfectly in season, a few pieces of the legs and a generous portion of the body meat: Steamed and chilled so cold it hurt my teeth; served with nothing but a wedge of lemon and a small dish of rice vinegar into which they had blended a touch of dashi to make a lightly flavored savory dip that I would literally be willing to drink by the bottle. Hokkaido people are justly proud, belligerently so, of their crab. As someone who grew up in Seattle, I like to think I know a little bit about crab myself. And wow. Wow. The crab started off as cold as possible, and the flavors changed and the sweetness developed as I slowly savored the generous portion. And of course, as I consult my notes, one of the only ones I made on this was "texture perfect. Duh". Some of the best chilled crab I have ever eaten--and if you know how special that dish is to me, you know that's saying something. Wow
The fourth dish, I mean, how do you follow up that crab? Only one way: Their signature dish. This is the dish mentioned in the Michelin review, the one that is always on the menu. Two cylinders of eggplant, delicately roasted and skinned--and then of course finished with a massive blowtorch, you can tell the pantry chef enjoys that part. After that, the chef carefully spoons on a portion of white miso sauce, and then tops it with ocean-fresh uni. Three ingredients (ok fine, with the understanding that the miso sauce contains like a dozen ingredients, but still), one warm, one room temperature, and one served chilled. For the first, I carefully used my chopsticks to try a bite of easily the best uni I had all trip (and if you know me, you know I spent the next two days eating uni at every single fish market in Sapporo and Otaru--but I never tasted a bite as good as this one). Rich, tender, and like everything good from the ocean condensed into one absurdly flavorful bite. Next, the miso added a touch of sweetness that amplified the natural flavor of the uni, rather than hiding it. And then the warm eggplant added a comforting blanket to bring everything together. I savored the entire first piece tiny bite by tiny bite, trying to make it last and interspersing it with sips of sake. The chef humored me, but when it came time to tackle the second one he laughed and said, <ok, this one you have to eat in one bite>
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| Yes, yes, it's their signature dish so you guys can have a photo to look at. Also stolen from Tabelog |
<One bite? Seriously???> <Yup, one bite. Enjoy.> Decadence. Sheer and utter decadence
The fifth dish was simmered kinki rockfish in a clear broth, served on a singe piece of simmered daikon and garnished with a generous pinch of shredded green onions. Fatty and juicy, kinki is only found in the Northern Pacific, and because of fishing limits its become a serious luxury in recent years. This piece was beautiful red and white with the slight rainbow sheen to show its supreme freshness. Cooked so that it flaked perfectly at the touch of chopsticks, yet held a firm texture, the sweetness paired beautifully with the simple daikon and bite of fresh green onions. And yet, to be honest, after coming in from the rain, it was the warm broth that truly suffused me with happiness and comfort. The clearer and simpler the broth, the harder it is to make. Suffice to say, these guys know what they're doing. Oh, and this is as good a place as any to point out that of course the dishware was gorgeous--in this case, elegant black lacquer with a golden (gold) wave pattern splashing across it. You probably didn't need me to tell you that
The sixth dish was the sashimi set. Oh yes, the sashimi set. Maika (squid), crosshatched literally by the millimeter in a wholly unnecessary concession to making squid easier to eat, since this piece was so soft and buttery that it would have been easy to bite even without the hatching. Botanebi (shrimp), so fresh that it had almost no fishy flavor, just a delicate saltiness that seemed deliberately evolved to accentuate the unbelievable sweetness. Tsubugai (erm, type of clam, similar to geoduck), which was actually almost crunchy in texture, to the point that I worried that I was making too much noise chewing inside the quiet restaurant--which sounds weird, I know, but you have to trust me it was amazing. Obviously, I never expected to get through a formal Japanese meal without a sashimi plate, but this generous set (two super giant pieces of each) blew away my expectations. Hokkaido is famous for it fish, and this restaurant is going to make sure that nobody leaves without knowing why. And of course, I followed the chef's instructions: salt only for the maika, my choice of either salt only or a slight touch of shoyu for the botanebi, and shoyu with a touch of fresh wasabi for the tsubugai. Exquisite
The seventh dish was hokke mackerel marinated in miso and charcoal grilled. The miso was incredibly subtle, never overpowering the fish but enough to bring out the savory flavor. The fish was fatty by the skin, but faded to a firm texture elsewhere. Served with nothing but lightly steamed turnip and two pieces of simmered kelp, this dish was supremely Hokkaido-style in its execution. Interestingly, the fish was so bold as to be almost meat-like in both texture and flavor, with a generous bite and a satisfying richness which was welcome even after the 6 previous courses. Oh and the owner's son, #3 or maybe #4 in the kitchen, actually got to grill it himself! By which I mean he got to stand there constantly fanning the coals to keep them at the right temperate, glancing every few seconds at the sous chef to make sure he was doing it right. In turn, the sous was a foot and a half away at the stove, stone-faced but clearly keeping an eye on the kid. Hey, it came out delicious, I think he did a good job
The eighth dish surprised me--shark's fin hotpot, in a traditional (stunningly executed) dashi-mirin-shoyu broth. To be honest, this was my first time every having shark's fin in a Japanese presentation, and while the standard Chinese preparation of "the king of dried goods" attempts to maximize the richness and impact of the entire dish, this Japanese presentation kept the broth light and balanced. The fin itself was fall-apart tender, but with each striation maintaining a firm texture that made it a joy to tenderly munch on. As a bonus, the hotpot contained a generous piece of house-made sesame tofu, and the chef actually cracked up at when I identified the ingredient (hey man, I'm a guy who loves his gomadofu, I'll not apologize for that). I had no idea it was possible to make a dish both overwhelmingly rich in flavor and airily light in presentation. I still have no idea how. Amazing
The ninth dish brought the whole course into its final act, starting with handmade soba. They use both wheat and mineral water from nearby Kuromatsunai (the quality of their water in particular is famous), and its of course flawlessly realized. What is there to say about this dish? The noodles were the perfect texture, the broth salty and pleasantly strong, and they didn't do anything fancy with toppings: Paper-thin green onions, punchy fresh wasabi, and crispy shredded nori. Only one thing made this presentation slightly unique--rather than in a large pot, they clearly boil the noodles in the barest amount of water necessary. This means that the water gets a thick, almost porridge-like consistency as the wheat disperses through it. How do I know this? Because, as is tradition, they set out a teapot full of this water, and as always once you've finished the noodles you pour it into your remaining broth (still spiked with a hint of wasabi) and enjoy it as a soup. What is normally a clear and nice little broth is instead a warm and comforting cup of creamy joy, something that feels like your food is giving you a hug from the inside out. I'm just saying. It was delicious
The tenth, and last savory dish, was of course soup, rice, and tsukemono pickled vegetables. Every single formal Japanese meal ends with this trinity, although of course its the chef's prerogative to put his or her spin on it. Of course, they didn't do anything too fancy. The soup was a light miso soup, with fried tofu skin and mizuna greens sprinkled in to keep it bright and pleasant. The rice was a takikomi-gohan that had been cooked with maitake mushrooms, although having made this dish myself I truly have no idea how they managed to keep the texture of the mushrooms so firm (do they have some secret technique? Or are they just using better quality mushrooms? I may never know). The tsukemono was obviously made in-house, with simple cucumber, daikon, and konbu seaweed--each with a different blend of sour, salt, sweet, spicy, and bitter. Duh. Exactly how you want to finish a meal, it would have been unsatisfying to have anything else
The eleventh and final dish was the dessert, and it was more or less exactly what I expected it to be. It was more or less what any of my Japanese friends or family would have expected it to be. Because, stunning quality aside, this wasn't a super fancy meal trying to change the landscape of Japanese cooking. It tasted like a home-cooked meal (if, you know, your home had an amazing chef and access to the highest quality ingredients and oh you know what I mean). As someone who grew up in a Japanese home, I have countless childhood memories of sitting at the kitchen counter, after all the dinner dishes had been cleared away . . . when my mother would take out a cutting board, a paring knife, and a nice fruit. She would carefully cut each slice, peeling it by hand, and give it to me piece by piece (and if you know my mom, you know it was like 3 or 4 pieces handed to me for every one she ate. Thanks, Mom). And so I got to sit at a different kitchen counter, thousands of miles away from the one at which I grew up, as the chef stood just a few feet away from me and we chatted to end my meal. I sipped warm barley tea as he used his thumb to guide the skin of a few pieces of mango and pear against the blade of his knife. And even though the pear was unreasonably sweet and tender, the grapes were like tiny bombs of unbelievable flavor, and the mango was fresh and piney and the perfect ripeness (and grown in a hothouse in Hokkaido! I didn't mention it until now, because I assumed that you all would know, but of course every single ingredient I ate that day was grown, raised, or caught in or off the coast of Hokkaido) . . . and even though he put it a gorgeous jet black ceramic dish that made the white and green and orange pop, and spooned white wine jelly on top . . . it was still basically the same dessert that I and every other Japanese person remembers eating as we grew up. That was how we ended the meal
After the meal, the owner and his wife (who manages the front of the house) walked me to the stairs. We finished up the conversation we'd been intermittently having over the previous two hours about my travels and my family and all of that, and they bowed me into the elevator
I love food, and I jump at any opportunity to have a unique food experience. I've had some of the coolest and craziest and fanciest preparations of which any Japanese chef has ever conceived, and this meal wasn't that. I don't know how they do it, but somehow they manage to make a restaurant with these laurels still somehow feel and taste like a home-cooked meal. It was amazing, and incredible. And, yeah, utterly and indescribably delicious. It was an honor, and I look forward to heading back there. My highest recommendation
Noah out
