Amazing soba

I was pinching myself a little.  One of the favourite segments in Bourdain's shows had been when he had introduced the world to the brilliant soba master Tatsuru Rai.  Watching him slowly and skillfully make soba, I was entranced and amazed.  To be able to experience something so close to perfection seemed to be unattainable and so I left it as nothing more than a dream.

Yet here I was.

I was walking done the snow covered path leading to Tatsuru Rai's small restaurant, the famous Rakuichi.  Even walking through the snow covered path felt dream like, everything shone and sparkled under the lights, a crisp and perfect white.  From the moment we got out of the cab, there seemed to be a sense that we were entering into a different a protected little world.  The gate was surrounded by high drifts of snow and it created a long snow cavern for us to walk through.

Once we reached the other side, the small and quaint little restaurant waited at the end of the path.  It seemed almost like out of a fairy tale.  The snow sat delicately on the roof and on the branches of the trees.  There was a thick covering on the ground.  The door waited for us to enter.

Once inside, we took off our shoes and jackets in the genkan.  We were lucky to have to been able to get a last minute cancellation booking and we were even seated at the counter table.  It was a prime spot that let us watch as the chef prepared the food.  I didn't know what to expect other than the soba, so I was very happily surprised to find that to soba only formed one course in an entire meal showcasing the chef's skills.

Each course was presented beautifully, each like a work of art.  I have often listened to people to people describing food as art.  It's hard not to roll your eyes at times with such flowery and over the top language.  Here, I didn't feel any such disdain and I looked at the care and thoughtfulness of each dish as being a true demonstration of a craftsman at the height of his skills. 

 

The second last course was a shabu shabu of pork.  After the delicately plated dishes, it seemed that we were moving away from that approach and towards more hearty food.  It was comforting and warming.  The small flame and the hot broth in front of me, as we leaned over and dipped the thinly sliced meat in to be cooked.  It felt like the ideal type of food to enjoy in these cold surroundings.

With these dishes now all served, Master Rai began working on the soba, the reason we were all at this restaurant.  He worked meticulously and efficiently.  The mounds of buckwheat flour, slowly being transformed into a rough dough, and then into an ever smoother dough.  He moved from the large tub to the work bench and started rolling in earnest.  Behind him was a selection of rolling pins.  He switched back and forth between these, diligently sculpting the dough into a perfectly consistent and ever expanding disk.

The kneading and rolling was almost rhythmic.  Master Rai didn't seem rushed, and he remained focused entirely on what was in front of him.  He lay down one rolling pin and picked up another as he began to thin out the dough into a sheet in preparation for making the long strands of soba.  As he dragged and folded the long sheet of dough, it sounded more like a thick sheet of fabric dragging on a bench.  There was a satisfying sweep with every turn and every layer he created.  Eventually, he was left with a large pad.  Dozens of layers, folded over one another.  The shape was uniform in length and width.  Thinking about the sounds, it seemed like he had taken a quilt and folded it up, ready to be packed away.  Instead, he brought out his long knife and a guide board and began to slice the individual strands of soba.  Everyone in the restaurant looked on with amazement and awe.  The thick dough was now being transformed into the soba we had all come to enjoy.  Each stroke of the knife came with a satisfying knock on the work bench.  He finished the work, lifted the soba in bunches, dusted them in flour and shook them as he placed them on a wide basket to be taken away to be cooked.

Earlier in the meal, I had been asked whether I wanted my soba hot or cold.  The traditional way is to eat the soba cold with a dipping sauce.  Given this was my first time eating Master Rai's soba, I felt the only appropriate way to eat this would be cold.  The plate was brought out in front of me with the sauce on the side.  It looked simple.  It was simple.  It was probably the plainest and simplest of all the dishes that had been served to me this evening.  Yet, when I ate it, I immediately understood why this was the reason I had come.  The soba was the perfect combination of soft and chewy.  The flavour of the buckwheat was earthy and satisfying.  I had never had better and I knew that I never would.

I was completely satisfied.  When you place such high hopes and expectations in a place, they normally let you down.  It's not surprising.  How often can something or somewhere be as great or amazing as the lofty heights we set in our minds?  Yet here was something special.  This was a place that was everything I had hoped it to be.  I knew I was fortunate for this opportunity and I was thankful to have been able to experience the work of a true master.