This is what U.S. food writer Harold McGee has to say about miso soup in his seminal work on kitchen science, history, and culture, On Food and Cooking:
Miso soup is a delight to the eye as well as the palate. When the soup is made and poured into the bowl, the miso particles disperse throughout in an even haze. But left undisturbed for a few minutes, the particles gather around the centre of the bowl in discrete little clouds that slowly change shape. The clouds mark convection cells, columns in the broth where hot liquid from the bowl bottom rises, is made cooler and so more dense by evaporation at the surface, falls again; is reheated and becomes less dense, rises, and so on. Miso soup enacts at the table the same process that produces towering thunderhead clouds in the summer sky.
Isn’t that fantastic?
Shizuo Tsuji writes that “in many ways miso is to Japanese cooking what butter is to French cooking and olive oil to the Italian way.” From what I already knew about miso, this didn’t sound quite right. Miso isn’t used for frying, for instance, or to add gloss to sauces, but he was right about its ubiquity. Over half of Japanese still wake up to the smell of miso soup for breakfast—to them it is like toast and coffee.
Most people have tasted miso paste in miso soup, of course, and possibly in that ubiquitous modern fusion dish cod with miso, and I’d recently tried it in the Kyoto tofu restaurant, grilled on tofu as dengaku. That last had been wonderful, with a meaty, peanut flavor and a complex acidity. But there was also a whiff of something ripe and funky about miso, which—as with so many of the tastiest foodstuffs (truffles, well-aged game, Roquefort)—both repelled and intrigued me in equal measure.
All of this and worse was confirmed before I had even entered Tony Flenley’s miso factory in the shadow of the spaceship-style Osaka Dome stadium. What was that appalling smell of backed-up toilets?
“Ah yes, that’s the drains. Sorry about that,” said Tony, a tall, cheerful Englishman in his early fifties, sighing, as he welcomed me to his Portakabin office.
“Phew, thank goodness for that. I thought it was the miso.” I laughed.
“Oh yes, it is the miso,” Tony said. “It’s just that we have to hold on to our waste to let the sediment settle before we can release the water into the sewer. The local council doesn’t really understand what we do here. Because we use bacteria, they don’t want us to pump waste directly into the sewer. I try to tell them it’s good bacteria, but they don’t listen.”
There are, Tony explained, three basic types of miso—one made with soybeans, salt, and rice; one made with soybeans, salt, and barley; and one made with just soybeans and salt. They range in color from deep reddish brown to light sandy beige. Light-colored miso tends to be slightly sweet, while the red has a richer, more powerful flavor. “Red’s got more amino acids, so it is better for you. They say one bowl a day keeps cancer away. You know, in Japan we don’t say that you ‘drink’ miso soup; you ‘eat’ it—because it is usually full of vegetables, tofu, and fish.”
With over two thousand miso producers in Japan, there is a huge number of regional variations. Around 80 percent is kome miso, made with soybeans and rice; on Kyushu they often use barley and beans—this is mugi miso, while miso from Nagoya is made with beans only—mame miso. Tokyo miso is traditionally dark, rust-colored, sweet, and powerful, while sendai miso, from Miyagi Prefecture, is salty. Predictably, Kyoto miso is refined and subtle, and a pale cream color. Tony, meanwhile, also produces Osaka’s unique sweet, white miso. The ingredients, whether or not they are steamed or boiled, fermenting time (some stand for two to three years)—all of these can affect the color and flavor of miso, he said.
Of course, making top-quality miso requires experience and an empathy with moldy rice and beans—you need to judge the amount of salt to add, the proportion of beans to rice or barley, and at what point optimum fermentation has been achieved. Above all, you need to know how to work with koji, rice inoculated with that magical fungus Aspergillus oryzae. When the koji starts devouring the beans, it heats up but must be kept below 105°F, as the koji’s enzymes first turn the starch into sugar and then break the beans down into amino acids. The sugar is important for white miso, and the amino acids give flavor to red miso.
Tony showed me around the factory, a fairly basic warehouse with various pipes and valves, tanks, and dials about the place. It all looked rather rudimentary: to make miso you basically need a big barrel, a grinder, a rice steamer, a bean cooker, and a koji room. As with sake and soy sauce (which was originally a by-product of miso manufacture), the koji, specially manufactured for use in miso-making, is added to the steamed beans and acts as a starting agent to get them fermenting. Salt is added, and the mix is left with a heavy weight on top and minimum contact with air for two to three weeks for white miso or one to two years for red. “You can speed the process up,” Tony told me. “But it doesn’t taste so good. We do it the proper way. Natural fermentation.” After fermentation, the beans are usually ground to a paste (although in some parts of Japan they are used as is or minced) and steamed to stop them from fermenting further. I can testify that miso can be left in the fridge for many, many months (frankly, years, although that’s probably not advisable).
For all its simplicity, the resulting product—a solid brown paste not unlike peanut butter—is a complex substance. Along with amino acids, it contains lactic acid, which helps balance the glutamate flavor and works as a preservative. As well as being a good source of protein and minerals, it also contains cholesterol-lowering compounds, while the fermentation process appears to boost the antioxidant levels already present in the soybeans. There has long been an association between miso consumption and reduced rates of cancer, in particular breast cancer, due, it is believed, to the presence of isoflavones, antioxidants unique to beans. When news came to Japan of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster, their response was to send miso, for instance. A survey of 270,000 people also indicated an association between miso soup and reduced gastric cancers—thought to be because miso purges the gut of various toxins—and some scientists believe that it slows aging by suppressing the oxidization of cellular lipids.
Ironically, just as the rest of the world is waking up to the miracle powers of this remarkable paste—exports have doubled over recent years—Japan is turning against it. Like that of sake, fresh dashi, and tofu, miso’s appeal appears to be waning with the Japanese, who are increasingly adopting Western-style diets and finding they have less time to cook from scratch. Consumption has dropped to less than 500,000 tons a year, compared to 580,000 tons in the eighties.
I asked Tony about natto, another fermented soybean product. Natto is a healthy traditional breakfast dish in Japan. It is made from only partially fermented soybeans, which turns them into a—to my eyes—deeply unappetizing, stringy, lumpy, vomit-like substance, with a taste that subtly blends soil and old cheese. I’d had my first taste of natto at the hotel breakfast buffet in our hotel in Sapporo. For me, perhaps the most off-putting thing about it was the determined, mucus-like strands that clung to the beans as I tried to pick them up. Along with the foul-smelling durian fruit and truffles, it has to be one of the most polarizing foodstuffs on the planet. “That’s made with a different fermenting bacteria,” Tony said. “We don’t make it. Actually, they say that you should never make miso and natto in the same premises because the natto bacteria is stronger and can affect the miso koji.”
What were his tips for cooking with miso? “Oh, loads. You can mix it with mirin and mustard and use it as a dip. With dengaku, you mix red and white miso and put it on tofu, then grill it. I use it in chili con carne instead of chocolate. It is great as a seasoning, instead of salt in a Western-style stew. You get a real, natural MSG boost—just remember that white miso has 5 to 6 percent salt and red has 10 to 12, so you need to adjust the salt accordingly. Red miso apple cake is nice, and a gratin with white miso works well. I’ve heard some London restaurants are serving pork with miso, which is a classic combo. We even made a miso ice cream once.”
Later, experimenting back home, I found a dessert spoon or so of miso works really well in tomato sauces. You can use it instead of a stock cube to enrich the flavor of a dish, and miso mixed with vinegar, water, sugar, garlic, and a neutral oil makes a great salad dressing.
I asked Tony how he ended up in this warehouse in the wilds of Osaka. He had lived in Japan for twenty years, having moved there originally as a TEFL teacher. He speaks the language fluently and is married to a Japanese woman; it was her family who founded the Osaka Miso Jyozo company a hundred years ago. The miso industry is very traditional, and originally his in-laws were against even the idea of their daughter marrying a foreigner. How did he win them over? “I guess when they realized I wasn’t going to run away with her there was a slow thaw. Anyway, her dad’s a boozer like me. We got on. In Japan, before the son takes over a company, he is sent off to another company to get some training, so I did that. After ten years, the old man grew weaker, and I started taking on visiting clients. He died three years ago, and I took over fully.
“Actually, I was always interested in fermentation. I made ginger ale when I was twelve—I found out if I put lots of sugar in I could make it more alcoholic! I taught English in Kuwait for a couple of years and used to make wine in my basement, then made yogurt; now I make bread.”
How did the company’s clients react to him? “Well, I suppose the people who were offended were too polite to say anything, but it still causes a stir. It is seen as a very tough profession. It didn’t help that we got hit by the Kobe earthquake [in 1995]. Even though it was across the bay, there was a lot of damage here. We lost the original factory, which was where the car park is now. I was on the thirteenth floor at home at the time, and all the crockery was smashed.” Apparently, the ground where the factory stands is still rather unstable. “Every time there is a concert in the Osaka Dome over the way there, it is equivalent to a force-three earthquake!”
Tony brought out a plate with some different misos for me to taste. The white was yeasty and sweet; the one-year-fermented red paste saltier, with a slight Marmite flavor. “Yes! You’re right. You know, I have thought about making a miso spread for bread. That’d be good, don’t you think?”
We tried a two-year-old red miso. It had an astringent, burning flavor. “It goes very well in a broth. It clears the palate well, which is what miso soup is supposed to do, of course. You should only have it after a meal. Often it is served with the other dishes but meant to be left until the end.” A white barley miso was next—it was sweet, with a hint of pineapple. “That’s very popular in Osaka. They have a real sweet tooth here.”
Tony and I chatted more generally about Osaka and life in Japan. He generously offered to introduce me to his contacts at the fish market—the second largest in the country—so that I could get to see the predawn tuna auction. “Let’s go right now; I can show you around,” he said.
The market was on the other side of town, so Tony drove me there in his Toyota station wagon. After making the introductions, he invited me for lunch at his favorite market restaurant, a dingy place on the first floor filled with stevedores and traders. They greeted him as an old friend, and we sat at the counter in front of a large, square steel vat filled with a murky brown liquid in which floated several unidentifiable foodstuffs.
“What do you mean you haven’t tried oden!” Tony said, seeing my grimace. “It is delicious; you have to try it.” Oden is the Japanese equivalent of a good stew, a winter warmer in which you can find bricks of tofu, various meats, burdock root, daikon, potatoes, fish cakes, seaweed, and boiled eggs. You might also chance upon the curious konnyaku. Pretty much anything the chef has on hand goes in, and it is said that a really great oden is eternal—the vat literally never stops simmering, with each day’s serving merely a top-up of the previous day’s.
The chef fished out a few choice morsels—some deep-fried tofu, spoon-tender pork, daikon, and a hard-boiled egg. It was delicious; I can imagine it being quite comforting during a tough winter.
Osakans are a hospitable and generous people, even adopted sons (Tony had insisted on paying for the oden). This was underlined the next evening when I hooked up with a couple of friends of friends, local food lovers who had promised to show me some of the addresses from their little black gourmet books.
We met outside the National Bunraku Theatre. Hiroshi, in his late forties, was wearing a Kangol flat cap and surfer shirt. With him was Chiaki, a woman around the same age. They introduced themselves with customary Japanese diffidence, but as we began to talk food, the shyness soon disappeared. “Osakans like to eat at lots of different places in one night,” Hiroshi said with the hint of a wicked grin. He wasn’t kidding.
There was a stunning okonomiyaki, cooked in front of us in a grimy old-school joint, on a hot plate caked in black grease. Hiroshi said it was the very best in the city, and I didn’t doubt it. “Osakans eat it straight from the spatula,” said Chiaki as she divided it up with her metal spatula. “We are always in a hurry, you know.” The waiter was keen to engage me in rugby talk, as England was playing Japan in the World Cup that night, but I was more interested in the sauce he brushed over the okonomiyaki. “Secret recipe,” he whispered, laughing.
Next stop was Daruma, the most famous kushikatsu restaurant in Japan. Daruma has been serving these moreish breaded, deep-fried skewers of meat, fish, and vegetables for over eighty years, which makes it positively ancient in Japanese fast-food terms. We took our place at the counter, feet splashing down in water spilled by the kitchen staff as they ducked and swooped around the tiny open working kitchen. These may have been shabby environs, but I couldn’t have wished for a finer introduction to the art of kushikatsu. The quails’ eggs and tomatoes were standouts, the thin, crunchy batter with its fine sandpaper finish cracking to unleash its meltingly delicious interior. The skewers cost less than a dollar each.
As with okonomiyaki, it is inexplicable to me why kushikatsu has not taken the world by storm by now. This is another of the great Osakan fast foods and deserves to be right up there with tempura and yakitori—to which it is related—as a globally known Japanese style of cooking.
The secret is in the batter, which in Daruma’s case is made with puréed yams, flour, eggs, water, and a unique blend of eleven spices. It forms a thin, crisp crust around whatever is being deep-fried, the true mastery of which lies in making sure the former adheres to the latter—we also had beef, shrimp, asparagus, chicken, and scallops. The skewers are cooked in beef oil at 375°F. The special meaty-sugary, ebony-colored dip is served in a communal pot on the counter bearing a “No double dipping” warning in English.
“Are we planning on going anywhere else? Because if we are, I had better stop,” I said to Hiroshi at one point. We were, but I couldn’t. The skewers and the beer kept on coming. By the time we left, a long queue was already forming outside. “They queue here for miles every night,” Hiroshi said. Ferran Adrià—whom, by now, I felt I was stalking through Japan—had eaten there recently, the chef told us.
The evening started to blur after the fifth or sixth beer, but I do remember going to Shinsekai, the city’s main food market, and then on to a standing bar, a current Osakan trend. Here we chatted a little more about the character of Osakans. “Osakans are friendly; they have a sense of humor; they like cheap, good food,” said Chiaki. “You can see the history of the city in their character. We are a mercantile people, outward looking, tough at business, but fair and adventurous. We are down-to-earth, not pretentious like the Kyoto people. We are blunt and to the point.”
In Osaka, everyone from heads of corporations to the men that mend the roads eat side by side, standing up in this kind of bar. We ordered hamo, fluffy and mealy, and then garlic miso with sea bream. Then came a sizable triangle of deep-fried tofu with ginger and spring onion.
The drinks took a more serious turn at this point. A large tumbler of sweet potato shochu appeared first, which made everything go that much blurrier than before, but then came a milky sake full of sediment—this was nama-sake, or unpasteurized sake, something of an acquired taste.
Hiroshi had written an article for a local newspaper on this particular bar, which was almost a hundred years old and run by the third generation of the same family. The article was framed on the wall behind us and included a photograph of the chef’s father. He had died the week before, the chef told us. His mother emerged from the kitchen, tiny and sad but with a brave face that said, Life continues. People must eat. His ten-year-old daughter pulled a beer for another customer, while the chef peeled a huge daikon in front of us, gently teasing off its outer skin with an equally gigantic but obviously razor-sharp knife. The technique is known as katsuramuki, meaning “column peel,” and is considered a basic test of a good Japanese chef, in the same way that a perfect quenelle is for a French chef.
Next up was an udon noodle place chosen by Chiaki. I had tried to protest this last addition to our itinerary. I really was stuffed, and more than a little drunk, but I am glad she persuaded me, for at Chiaki’s favorite udon restaurant I tasted heaven.
It was just a simple dashi broth with small, crisp, deep-fried gyozas floating on its surface. The discussion had taken a more personal slant. “Michael-san,” Hiroshi asked me. “Your favorite food? What would your last meal be?”
I paused. Would it be elaborate tasting menus at Ducasse and Robuchon, or a great British roast? I did consider fresh oysters, lobster, pan-fried foie gras, and I had already eaten so many memorable meals in Japan that several of them would suffice. But the truth was, right at that moment, I had eaten nothing more delicious than that dashi. It was as sweet as spring peas fresh from the pod, yet complex, with the tang of ocean, and when you bit into the gyoza, a satisfying porky punch with a zing of spring onion and herbs. I may have been dribblingly drunk, but I remember it as being as good as anything I had tasted up until that point and said so. Chiaki and Hiroshi beamed.
I had to know how they made it. To alarmed looks from my dining companions, I stood up from the table and tottered into the open kitchen. This absolutely is not done in Japan, but as is often the case, being foreign can provide a passport to all sorts of forbidden territories. I eventually managed to communicate my inquiry and was shown the blend of three dried fish they used to steep in the konbu broth: katsuobushi, sardine, and mackerel.
It had been the food crawl to end all food crawls. I had eaten more in ten or so hours than I would usually consume in a couple of days. I don’t know how I got back to the hotel that night, and I certainly don’t remember the journey, but I do remember that, true Osakans that they are, Chiaki and Hiroshi never let me pay for a thing.