Chapter 35: Frost's Descent

Interesting, Johnson nodded, his opinion of Tang Hong rising. The outcome is often decided by attention to detail; she must have studied diligently, and opportunity always favors the prepared.

As the door opened, a kimono-clad woman entered, carrying a bamboo basket. She carefully set down four small dishes and introduced them in accented Chinese: “Hassun, please enjoy.”

Johnson looked at the palm-sized plates—sea bream, octopus, and side dishes of lily bulbs, yam, and kidney beans.

Tang Hong handed him a pair of chopsticks, smiling as she explained, “Kaiseki cuisine, like authentic French haute cuisine, has an air of elegance and follows a strict serving order, closely tied to the tea ceremony.”

“Hassun refers to the appetizer, served as the first course, though sometimes the sequence is reversed and it appears at the end as a dish to accompany sake. The order doesn’t really matter; the point is to bring together mountain and sea delicacies, presenting the season’s flavors on one plate.”

“Even holding chopsticks has its rituals, especially when holding a bowl—you first pinch the chopsticks with the left hand, then take them properly with the right.”

Johnson curled his lip; all for show, but so-called aristocratic temperament lies in ceremony. Wasn’t the emperor the same way in years past?

He picked up a piece and placed it in his mouth: the texture was light, the fragrance subtle and elegant, untouched by seasoning, relying solely on the pure flavor of the ingredients.

Next came smoked salmon sashimi, tuna, and avocado, marinated in miso and skewered with thin bamboo sticks, topped with a few salmon roe resting on a small, butterfly-shaped slice of yam.

Seaweed and egg yolk wrapped around a piece of cooked octopus, sushi made with a slice of tuna wrapped in pepper leaves, paired with broad beans and lily petals.

The little basket on the table was like an exquisite bonsai. Each bite offered a unique flavor; the ingredients were fresh, their natural sweetness evident, with sashimi and sushi served without dipping sauces.

With every course removed, the tea was also replaced, always kept warm. The meticulous service made Johnson feel at ease.

After a few bites, all the dishes were cleared, and sea bream sashimi was served—the second phase, Mukozuke, which is essentially seasonal fish sashimi.

Johnson picked up a slice, thin as cicada wings. Sashimi may seem simple, but as the island nation’s proudest culinary method, its subtleties run far deeper than imagined.

Freshness is merely the baseline; seasonality, origin, handling, knife skills, and seasoning are the true keys to deliciousness.

He tasted it slowly, remarking, “As a spring catch, sea bream is especially plump and oily right now, making it the star of kaiseki cuisine from March to April.”

“After the dual treatment of fire and ice—searing the fish skin, then rapidly cooling—it’s paired with orange vinegar jelly. The taste is quite good.”

Tang Hong, thoroughly enjoying herself, listened to Johnson’s culinary insights while her chopsticks moved ever faster.

Johnson was wholly absorbed in the meal, gently dabbed a bit of wasabi, and said with satisfaction, “Wasabi itself is an art—whether applied to the fish or blended into the soy sauce depends on its quality.”

“Good wasabi is characterized by sweetness, with just the right touch of heat; applied thinly to the fish, it achieves a balanced, refreshing flavor and cuts through any greasiness. It’s expensive, reserved for high-end cuisine.”

“What’s commonly used in regular restaurants is merely dyed horseradish; eaten alone it burns the eyes, but blended into soy sauce, it becomes somewhat milder.”

He picked up another slice of sea bream—thin, translucent, and firm rather than soft, offering a surprising, contradictory experience.

Then came Spanish mackerel, wrapped around a segment of citrus vinegar jelly, its sweet and tangy bounce adding another layer to the fish’s freshness. It felt less like sashimi, more like a chilled dessert.

The plate included marinated seaweed and unfamiliar wild greens, crisp and refreshing without any herbal bitterness—chewing them after a bite of sashimi restored a clean palate.

Needle squid, coated with a thin layer of sesame, was sweet and slightly tough; paired with egg yolk soy sauce, the flavor was fuller.

The plating was exquisite, vibrant, and meticulous in its details; no wonder it’s hailed as top-tier cuisine—it lives up to its reputation.

The third stage was Nimonowan—a beautifully crafted soup bowl, complemented with a red cloth mat. The lid was carefully lifted to reveal a rim lined with gold leaf, cherry blossoms painted in gold lacquer, and the soup shimmering under the light.

Featuring sweet sea bream, garnished and seasoned with seasonal cherry blossoms and leaves. Johnson picked up his spoon, expecting a simple fish broth, but was surprised by hidden layers.

At the top were bracken and cherry leaves, sprinkled with fine, crispy rice crackers. Beneath the cherry leaf lay a sizable piece of fish, and beneath that, glutinous rice mingled with cherry blossom petals.

The soup played its supporting role perfectly; the rice didn’t muddy the broth, but instead complemented the fish’s freshness with its softness. The soup was crystal clear, each layer distinct.

He nodded to himself, thinking, “I thought kaiseki would obsess over the pure taste of ingredients, eschewing all seasoning. But this Nimonowan is different—even a touch salty.”

“The glutinous rice with fish is not bland; basic salt brings out the flavor of both fish and broth. Ginger juice added to the soup is the traditional method for counteracting fishiness, making the whole bowl smooth and delicious. Quite impressive.”

Tang Hong couldn’t discern all the nuances Johnson described; as long as it tasted good, she was happy. Seeing the kimono-clad woman bring in another dish, she exclaimed, “Sea bream shirako tofu—my favorite!”

Johnson tasted it, involuntarily squinting his eyes—the texture was gentle and smooth, and with the orange vinegar dressing, there was a bright citrus tang under the sweetness, an indescribable, seductive freshness.

As fish milt, shirako has always been a staple high-end ingredient for kaiseki, especially sea bream shirako in spring and pufferfish shirako in winter—true delicacies.

The tofu in citrus vinegar was exceptionally tender, even softer than fresh tofu. Daikon puree, garnished with scallion and ginger threads, was delicately placed atop the trembling tofu—like a breath of early summer.

“Shirako is paired with seasonings, then made into blocks using agar or arrowroot flour, transforming its somewhat unsettling shape into tofu, letting the flavor permeate imperceptibly. No wonder it’s considered an extraordinary tofu dish.”

Johnson was quite satisfied with the chef’s pacing—this dish, served mid-meal, balanced the saltiness of the preceding fish soup and refreshed the palate for what was to come.

“This is Yakimono, please enjoy,” the kimono-clad woman presented the dish and, hearing Johnson’s comments, respectfully explained, “Ingredients in Japanese cuisine, especially fish, are graded. Ordinary salmon rarely appears on high-end menus; instead, spring sakura trout stands out, whether as sushi, sashimi, or grilled.”

Before them was grilled sakura trout, shaped with bamboo skewers then smoked and roasted, likely salted beforehand. The texture was firm and dry, the smokiness and char just right, the golden skin adorned with a small white flower—simple yet striking.

The woman continued, “In top kaiseki restaurants, sakura trout is the most common spring grilling ingredient. Summer calls for grilled cutlassfish, autumn features roe-bearing seasonal fish, and winter is the realm of grilled pufferfish.”

She bowed and left, soon returning with a large tray, kneeling as she served, “This is Shiizakana—the main course: Kobe beef and eel rice.”

Tang Hong’s eyes were glued to the plate, unable to resist swallowing—finally, the meat courses were here. Top-grade, air-shipped A5 wagyu, paired with three-hundred-year-old honey-glazed eel rice…

Together, they cost nearly ten thousand yuan!

Johnson picked up a piece of wagyu sashimi—vivid crimson streaked with delicate white, like marble. Only A5-grade beef is truly delicious as sashimi; the melt-in-the-mouth sensation demands a precise fat distribution.

The island nation grades beef in fifteen tiers: letters A to C denote yield grade, meaning the rate of lean meat. The left side between the sixth and seventh ribs is cut to assess the net meat yield, determined by the area of the longest chest muscle, thickness of abdominal meat, subcutaneous fat thickness, and carcass weight post-chilling—A is highest.

Then, meat quality is rated on four criteria: muscle color, fat color, firmness, and marbling, each scored from 1 to 5.

A wagyu’s final grade is not the average of these, but the lowest among them; if color, firmness, and fat are all rated 5, but marbling is 3, the final grade is 3.

As one of the most precious red meats, premium Kobe beef easily fetches thousands per kilogram. Matsusaka wagyu, known as the “artwork of meat,” rivals the top tuna at Tsukiji Market in auction prices.

In 2002, a Matsusaka cow sold at auction for fifty million yen—2.9 million yuan—proof of its exceptional quality.

Johnson picked up a piece of sashimi; his first time eating raw beef. It was slightly thicker than fish, but when placed in his mouth, he finally understood the true meaning of “melt in the mouth.”

The fibers were coarse, but the beef, untouched by cooking, dissolved instantly. The evenly distributed fat melted like a net, slowly enveloping his tongue, his taste buds willingly frozen in bliss.

“Marbling!”

No wonder the Japanese use that term for wagyu!