Umami, Wasabi and Matcha
The Fading Flavors of Japan Within Me 曖昧になる私の中の日本の風味
(The Japanese text follows the English./ 日本語は英文の後にあります)
As more Japanese ingredients and seasonings are becoming widely recognized in the U.S. under their original names, I’ve noticed something unexpected: the flavors I associate with them are slowly becoming less clear in my own mind. Every now and then, I catch myself thinking, Wait… was this what it was supposed to taste like? And I find myself reaching back, trying to recall a flavor from a much earlier time.
At one point, after seeing how popular it was on social media, I picked up a bottle of Multipurpose UMAMI Seasoning Blend at a nearby Trader Joe’s and decided to try it. One day, feeling too lazy to make dashi from scratch, I added it to a bowl of hot udon broth, hoping it would bring a deeper, savory richness. But maybe I wasn’t using it the right way—no real umami came through. It wasn’t unpleasant, but the flavor became something unfamiliar to me.
Looking at the ingredients, I noticed dried onion, ground mustard seed, and a generous amount of mushroom powder. Apparently, it’s rich in guanylate, one of the compounds associated with umami, often found in dried shiitake mushrooms. And yet, it didn’t taste like the umami I know. Some people say it makes everything taste better. Maybe umami, after all, is something shaped by each household’s own sense of flavor. Or perhaps it works better in non-Japanese dishes. If anyone has a favorite way of using it, I’d genuinely love to hear.
Umami is much harder to describe than the other basic tastes, like sweetness or saltiness. When I have the time, I make dashi from scratch using kombu (kelp) and katsuobushi (dried bonito flakes). Even then, if I lose focus for just a moment and let the water get too hot, the kombu dashi can turn bitter. The umami I carry within me is tied to my mother’s cooking—nimono (simmered dishes), miso soup, and dashimaki tamago (Japanese rolled omelet). But getting close to that flavor requires a surprising amount of care and some knowledge.
My mother is now 88 and, with dementia, no longer cooks. But when my sister and I were growing up, she was a very Showa-era homemaker—part of Japan’s postwar high-growth years, completely devoted to the kitchen and the rhythms of the household. And I truly believed there was no better home cook in the world. It may sound a bit self-serving to say this about one’s own family, but one of our relatives, shortly before she passed away, wrote in a letter that “The wife Yoshiaki (my father) married is an exceptional cook—he is fortunate to have her.” Her dashi, her seasoning—everything about her cooking was entirely her own.
A few years ago, I found something unexpected in my mother’s kitchen. On a small jam jar, in her handwriting, was a label reading “Yoshiaki’s — Ajinomoto” (see the photo at the top). Ajinomoto is one of Japan’s most well-known seasonings—a form of monosodium glutamate, or MSG, made by fermenting sugarcane molasses, and meant to add umami.
My mother never used chemical seasonings in her cooking. But my father loved Ajinomoto and would often shake a few pinches into his small dish of soy sauce for sashimi. In our household, only he was allowed to use it. So when our parents weren’t around, my sister and I would sneak some from that little jar, pour the white crystals into our palms, and lick them. It tasted strange—somehow salty-sweet, slightly bitter, and impossible to pin down. Somehow, we must have dozed off while eating. I remember being shaken awake by my mother, who was furious—and how incredibly thirsty I felt.
And yet, she kept it in a small jar, tucked away on a kitchen shelf—perhaps, as my father grew older and began to lose his appetite, she may have allowed him to have Ajinomoto again—something he had always liked—in the hope that he might eat a little more.
Wasabi is another flavor whose original taste I feel I am gradually forgetting. Most of the wasabi on the market comes in tube paste, far removed from its natural form, and the taste is different, too. Once, I went to a highly rated sushi restaurant in New York City and, taking my seat at the counter with high expectations, found a small pyramid of wasabi in front of me that tasted just like the store-bought stuff from a tube. It was deeply disappointing.
My father was from Shizuoka Prefecture, southwest of Tokyo, where wasabi is one of the region’s specialties. Wasabi comes from the stem of a plant native to Japan, in the mustard family, and is grown in clear, running water. When freshly grated, it releases a gentle sweetness and a clean, refreshing aroma. My father was particular about wasabi, so at home we always grated it fresh, using a special grater—often said to be best made with sharkskin, though I don’t remember if ours was. I didn’t encounter tube wasabi until I was already working, and I was surprised by how different it tasted and smelled. Still, it was affordable and convenient, and I eventually grew used to it. It wasn’t until I moved to New York and first tasted horseradish that I realized where that sharp heat in the tube wasabi came from. When it’s blended with real wasabi, even the tube version can have a certain depth of flavor.
Of all the things that have kept their names while changing drastically in taste and use, matcha stands out the most. I love drinking matcha in the context of the traditional tea ceremony, but I rarely touch “matcha-flavored” drinks or sweets. Partly because I’ve never had much of a sweet tooth, and partly because when I see inexpensive products claiming to use matcha, I can’t help wondering if it’s really matcha at all—or just powdered green tea. In that case, I’d rather brew a proper cup at home. There’s also the matter of caffeine: authentic matcha is made by dissolving finely ground whole tea leaves, so it contains a high amount of caffeine. Combine that with espresso, and… just thinking about it is enough to keep me awake.
元の日本語の呼び名がそのままアメリカで通じる食材や調味料が多くなる一方で私の中のそれらの風味が曖昧になっている。「あれ？これってそういう味だったっけ？」と遠い昔の記憶を辿ることがしばしばある。
以前、SNSでその人気を知って近所のトレーダージョーズで「多目的用うま味調味料」を買ってきて使ってみた。出汁をとるのが面倒で、うどんの温かい汁にコクをつけようと入れてみたのだが、私の使い方がよくなかったのか全然うま味は出なかった。不味くはないが、それまで知らない味になった。成分を見ると、乾燥玉ねぎ、挽いたカラシの種子、そして粉状マッシュルームが多く含まれていた。干し椎茸に含まれるうま味成分のグアニル酸を多く含むらしい。でも私の知っているうま味とは違った。ほかの利用者の声で「これを入れるとなんでも美味しくなる」という意見もあったから、うま味はそれぞれの家庭の味、ということになろうか。もしかしたら日本食以外の料理で使うと効果が出るのかも。もしおすすめの使い方をご存知の方、ぜひ教えてください。
うま味はほかの基本五味の甘味や塩味に比べると言い表すことが難しい。私は時間が許せば昆布と鰹節で一から出汁を作る。それでもちょっと気が散ってお湯の温度が上がり過ぎてしまうと昆布から苦味が出てしまう。私の中の「うま味」は私の母の手料理の、出汁がよく効いた煮物や味噌汁、だし巻き卵を連想させるが、それに近づけるには注意深さと知識がないとできない。私の母は88歳になり認知症があるので料理をすることはもうないが、私と妹が子どものころはバリバリの昭和の専業主婦で、私は「この人に勝る料理人はいないのではないか」と思うくらい彼女の家庭料理はなんでも美味しかった。自分の身内を褒めるのは気が引けるが、亡くなった親戚が遺した手紙の中に ” ヨシアキ (私の父のこと）に来た嫁さんはそれはそれは料理がうまくて感心した。いい嫁をもらった”と書いてあったほどだ。出汁も味付けも母の独自のものだった。
その母の台所で数年前に意外なものを見つけた。小さなジャムの瓶に母の手書きで、「ヨシアキ アジのもと」と貼ってあった (冒頭の写真)。正式には「味の素」という日本の化学調味料の代表格の商品でさとうきびの糖蜜に発酵菌を入れて作った、うま味成分を引き立てるグルタミン酸ナトリウムだ。母は自分の料理にそれを使わなかったが、父は好きでよく自分の刺身用の醤油の小皿にパッパッと入れていた。当時の我が家では父以外は味の素を使うことが禁じられていたので、両親がいない時に妹と一緒にその小瓶から白い結晶を手のひらに盛りぺろぺろと舐めてみた。しょっぱ甘いような、苦いような、なんとも言えない独特の味がした。舐めながら私と妹は寝入ってしまい、母に怒られながら起こされた時にものすごく喉が乾いていたのを覚えている。
化学調味料を使わなかった母が、父のために小瓶に詰めて台所の棚に隠してあったのは、高齢になって食が細くなった父が少しでも多く食事を摂るよう、彼が好きだった「味の素」を再び解禁していたのかもしれない。
私が本来の味を忘れつつあるものの中にわさびもある。市場に出回っているわさびはチューブ入りのペースト状でわさび本来の形とはほど遠く、味も違う。一度、ニューヨークで高評価の寿司店に行き、期待してカウンターに座ると小さな三角錐に盛られたわさびが市販のチューブの味がして興醒めしたことがあった。
私の父の出身地は東京の西南に位置する静岡県で、特産品の一つがわさびだ。わさびは清流で育つ、日本原産のアブラナ科の茎の部分で、すりおろすとほんのり甘い爽やかな香りがする。父がわさびにうるさかったので実家はいつも生のわさびを食べるたびに専用のおろし器 (サメの皮が適していると言われるが我が家のもそうだったのかは覚えていない）ですりおろしていた。私がチューブ入りのワサビを食べたのは社会人になってからで、味と匂いがまったく違って驚いた。それでも利便性に加えて安価なのでそれに慣れてしまった。そしてニューヨークに移住して初めてホースラディッシュの味わいを知ったとき、チューブのわさびはこの辛味が入っているとわかった。本わさびと混ぜたものは、チューブでもそれなりの味わいがある気がする。
名前はそのままで味と用途が大きく変わったものはなんといっても抹茶。私は伝統的な茶道で抹茶をいただくのは大好きなのだが、「抹茶風味」の飲み物やスイーツはほとんど飲食しない。もともと甘党でないので食指が動かないのと、抹茶を使っている割に安価な商品を見ると、抹茶ではなく煎茶の粉かな？とも思い、ならばうちでお茶を入れて飲んだ方がおいしいし、と考えてしまう。それと本格的なお抹茶は茶葉を丸ごと粉末にしたものを溶いて飲むのでカフェインの含有量がとても多い。それをさらにエスプレッソと合体させたら … 考えるだけで私は眠れなくなってしまう。