Today was officially my last day of school. Wednesday was the last day of classes, and I had my students play Jeopardy with categories like “文直す – Fix the Sentence” and “翻訳 – Translation.” Yesterday, I attended the farewell ceremony at Nanzan – my small elementary school and spent the rest of the day applying for jobs. After wishing the students farewell at today’s assembly – “English is your key to unlocking the world,” I told them – I accepted a smattering of gifts and goodbyes, not unlike a medieval king receiving tribute.
It was very sweet, but saying goodbye for a week straight is quite draining. Anyways, after that big song and dance, I rode my bike over to city hall, where my very chill supervisor told me I was free to go home rather than loiter around the Board of Education Office until the customary 3:45.
Say less, I exclaimed, and immediately dialed up our good friend Will. We had been discussing going to a Michelin-guide soba spot in Iyo for some time, but the fact that they were only open from 11-3 made things difficult. Much to my chagrin, Will had just concluded his own lunch in Matsuyama – but he encouraged me to make a solo sojourn. I called the restaurant to make sure they would still have soba by the time I arrived, then peddled home as fast as I could to throw on shorts and set off for Iyo-Okina.
It was about a 4.5 km journey, and I turned off 56 – a major highway in Ehime – and soon I was cycling past rice fields and farm houses. The rainy season officially ended last week, and now every day is hot and humid as hell.
The road varied from asphalt to gravel to a narrow, bumpy dirt path that runs between the vast rice fields. Blue and white herons can be seen in the fields, canals, rivers, and aqueducts, cooling their feet and spooning their beaks into the water – in addition to smaller, less impressive birds (no offense).
I slipped my battered gray sneakers off outside the entrance, and slid the door open. I was immediately taken with the building.
While it doesn’t look like much from the outside – in fact I rode right past it without realizing – the inside is stunning.
The photos don’t do it justice, but the one room is held up by one central pillar – like a tent. The interior is all light wood and big windows to let in natural light and showcase the natural beauty.
After waiting politely for a few minutes, I was shown to a table with a view of the garden. The waitress poured me an ice-cold cup of mugicha, barley tea, the preferred beverage of scorching humid Japanese summers. And, I noted to myself as I quenched my thirst, rather appropriate to have a barley beverage to pair with my barley noodles. Actually, as I realized while I write this, soba is made from buckwheat, not barley. Even in my internal monologue, I am confidently incorrect.
I asked for her recommendation and ordered tenzaru soba. “Ten” refers to the accompaniment of tempura, while zaru soba consists of cold soba noodles served with dipping sauce. As I waited for my food to arrive, I gazed around the restaurant, counting just 24 seats in the small establishment. Behind me, a family with a baby was seated at a horigotatsu sunken table. To my left, an old man with white hair slurped noodles at the counter. I tried to slow my sweating.
My tempura arrived in just a few minutes, piping hot out of the fryer. But I didn’t even have time to take a picture – phone eats first – before my soba arrived.
Absolutely spectacular. If you haven’t eaten zaru soba before, the array of vessels surrounding the basket of noodles may be overwhelming. I’ll be your guide. The top left jar contains your soba sauce – add that to the cup located next to it after dumping in the provided accoutrements (scallions, wasabi, and grated daikon (radish)) and stir. The dish with the lighter-colored sauce in the top right is for dipping your tempura, and that little thimble of daikon goes with. To eat it, take a pinch of soba with your chopsticks, deposit it in your sauce cup, give it a brief swirl, and eat it out of the cup, making sure to slurp loudly to demonstrate your appreciation.
This soba was lighter in color than what I had encountered in the past. I tried an undipped noodle for science, and it didn’t take like much. But zaru soba (or any cold noodle, like the Korean naengmyeon) is the perfect thing to eat on a hot day. There was some sort of quality that I couldn’t put my finger on that made this exceptional.
As good as the soba was – and it’s probably the best I’ve ever had, the tempura stole the show. Sometimes the tempura’d shrimp can have a chewy, mealy sort of texture, but this one was perfect. Bouncy like you get in har gow, with the thinnest, crispiest shell of batter. The other two offerings – a slice of eggplant and a single snap pea – retained their original, fresh essence underneath the delicate fried coating.
After drinking my sobayu – leftover dipping sauce diluted with the hot, starchy water that your noodles were boiled in (always reserve your pasta water, folks) – I rose to pay. When I pulled out my wallet, the cashier informed me that the old man who had been eating at the counter was in fact the shop’s owner, and he had paid for my meal.
I was shocked by this act of generosity. I hadn’t even spoken to the man. Why me? Did he appreciate that this sweaty gaijin had ridden his bike from God knows where to sample this soba? Or was there some other reason. I wish I had the chance to thank him, and maybe pick his brain about his soba training.
At any length, I did pay for my soft serve.
Rich, creamy, and icy. Simple and pure like my meal. That brown dusting is actually soba tea – roasted buckwheat ground into a fine powder. I sat outside and listened to the cicadas sing – the soundtrack of Japanese summer.
To conclude my afternoon, I paid a visit to the quiet shrine down the road.
This is the Iyo Shrine – wonder why it’s called that? According to the internet, it’s been around since ancient times.
The empty temizuya and the cobweb on the bathroom door handle indicates that no one has been here in quite some time.
I quietly reflect on my soba, the Japanese pursuit of perfection in simplicity, and the year I’ve spent here. Or maybe I just thought “damn, it’s hot and I’m sweaty” over and over again. What is definite is that I got eaten alive by bugs.
We’re really in the home stretch now. With work largely out of the picture, I have several trips lined up before I leave Japan for good. This weekend will be spent in the onsen town of Beppu with Will, the onsen master. The following weekend will take me to Kochi for some surfing and horse racing. And to top it off, I’ll visit childhood friend Gen in Hokkaido. In between that I have to pack, empty my bank account, cancel my phone plan, and other fun stuff. But I’ll surely pen some more travelogues in between my errands.
– Zev
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