Knives are sharpened and chopsticks are brandished as a gruff Japanese master chef serves up a potentially deadly Kaiseki meal of a lifetime. Marco Rodriguez is granted a peek into the inner workings of Taka—where fish is fresher than tomorrow and nothing gets lost in translation

Are you out of your mind?” came the sharp rebuke from across the table.

“That has got to be the most absurd idea ever!” bounced a similarly disdainful observation.

Neither shared my enthusiasm to embark on an unprecedented culinary undertaking nor did they appreciate the interruption of the pleasant dinner conversation.

The dining scene in the metropolis has shown more dynamism and flair over the last couple of years than it probably ever has. An influx of foreign chefs, as well as the development of local and internationally trained talent, has helped raise expectations and reconfigure our collective palates. I had earlier heard about a movement of chefs serving up an age-old, traditional style of Japanese cookery steeped in ceremony, its seeds just about planted into our culinary landscape for us rapacious gaijin to experience. Kaiseki.

I oftentimes wonder how life would have been back in the Japanese Edo Period, visiting the idyllic countryside of Kyoto or Hokkaido and stepping into a traditional inn known as a ryokan to partake in an elaborate tea ceremony or chanoyu. As vibrant cherry blossoms keep vigil through my open window, I imagine shuffling on the tatami mat in only my yukata after a long, rejuvenating dip in an outdoor onsen (hot spring) to avail of its therapeutic proper ties.

I recalled an exchange I once had with my friend John Tanjangco about the intricacies and far-reaching influence of Japanese cuisine. We marveled at how it had evolved into a standard whose techniques even Western Michelin-Starred chefs have nowadays begun to embrace. He mentioned that he frequented a restaurant whose specialty was the art of Kaiseki. What intrigued me even more than this much-revered cuisine was the assortment of strange seasonal fare on hand. “Did you know that they serve fugu?” he asked. My eyes widened like saucers upon hearing that bit of trivia. The infamous Tiger Blowfish (Torafugu), once banned by the Tokugawa Shogunate because of its lethal side effects, has become a much-celebrated delicacy in Japan. I was thrilled at the strange notion of taking part in an extraordinary yet potentially virulent meal. The 59% mortality rate made me the object of derision at that dinner party.

We were all on an elevated plane of delight, according due reverence to the procession of dishes that had passed before us. 

So, as the smoke cleared, and the attention and frenzy waned, the reality and risk factor of eating fugu actually set in. I sat with myself for a while and deliberated my options, reaching a sound decision. I picked up the phone to tell him of my rational course of action: “John, make it happen!”
 
The winds of autumn
Blow: yet still green
The chestnut husks
–Matsuo Basho (1644–1694)
 
Kaiseki cuisine is a seasonally driven, regionally diverse art form. Much like its Western counterpart, haute cuisine, and its place on the culinary echelon, it is an elevated, more sophisticated take on Japanese food than we’re accustomed to. Grounded deeply in theme and tradition, each dish an interplay of components that tells a story through intricate presentation. This Eastern version of “small plates” dining meshes well with the traditional philosophy of taru wo shiru, or knowing how to be satisfied with the very minimum.

I had begun my day feeling the worse for wear. As luck would have it, my nasal passages were clogged and my eyes watery with no immediate remedy in sight. I feared that this would undoubtedly hamper my abilities to properly savor the meal I had been most anxious to try. I was hopeful, though. Nothing a little freshly grated wasabi wouldn’t clear. After several moments straining my vision while driving along congested Arnaiz Avenue (formerly known as Pasay Road) in Makati, I found Taka at 288 Tesoro’s Building. “That’s strange,” I thought to myself as I rolled down and peered through my window, “this same building houses the ramen joint I’d gotten my fill of for the past couple of weeks.” Ramen: that ubiquitous everyman’s comfort food enjoyed in nearly every corner of Japan, which over the years had morphed into the dehydrated space food variety found on the shelf of your local grocer. Two floors up lay hidden an entirely different concept of the Japanese dining experience that is at the furthest end of the food spectrum.

I stepped out of the elevator and walked into the foyer of what looked to me like any ordinary businessman’s café or coffee shop, only that it was festooned with a vast array of colorful fishing tackles prominently displayed by the window, as well as a row of streamlined rods and fishing equipment lined up against the wall. I surveyed the area to make sure I got the coordinates right, then I turned around and spied a narrow set of wooden doors at the far end of the room, the glint from its metalwork catching my attention. Being that lunch was my first meal of the day, my stomach yammered as I eagerly pushed them open to reveal what was to me a gleaming realm of wondrous possibilities. I had found my ryokan. The galley-like hallway, though no wider than 3 feet across had a very light and airy feel made so by celadon-colored walls on which were large glass panels and dark wood finishings. The left of the entrance opened up to an alcove that held an austere, compact sushi counter.

A Kaiseki meal is segmented into different courses:  a Zensai or amuse-gueule, sashimi course, Yakimono or broiled seasonal fish course, Agemono or deep-fried course, Nimono or stewed course, Sunomono or vinegared course, and the Mizumono or dessert course. The novelty of such a meal is that it is served Omakase-style, meaning that it is up to the chef’s discretion what he feels like serving that day as dictated upon by the availability of ingredients and perhaps by his inspiration. At Taka, there is no set menu, only a choice between courses (Taka, Akane, Kago) that range from a lofty P4500 per head to a head-spinning P10,000 and beyond. When dining here, one might easily prepare for the meal by simply sitting still, taking in the surroundings, and as if awaiting the opening act of a Noh performance on an old kagura stage, expecting the unexpected. “Ichi Maku,”  the waitresses spoke with the faintest of voices in line with the serenity and elegance of the whole experience. She led me through the narrow hall and into one of only three small rooms. Inside, I was met by John, his boss (hotelier Mr. Miguel Cerqueda), and his associate: all regular patrons. We have all at one time or another walked into a Japanese restaurant who’s entire staff would surreptitiously come out from their designated hiding places, be it from behind a sliding paper wall or the sushi counter, and then shout out that irrepressible greeting, “Irrashaimase!” We had nothing of the sort here. As we settled comfortably into our seats, all we felt was hushed and barely contained gustatory anticipation.

An ornate metallic flower emblazons the glass wall, a design of falling leaves is imprinted on the olive-green fabric, and billowing patterns of wind decorate a squat four-seat table. The minimalist nature of our room kindled by sunlight streaming through the windows and bouncing off bleached wooden floors depicts the harmonious transition between seasons, perfectly highlighted in our seamless course progression. A lacquered box was set down before us. In it were ornate servings of Gomadofu, a black and white sesame paste and yuba, dried bean curd gilded with gold leaf and fish roe—a pleasing introduction to the meal given its light notes and soft hints of flavor.

Next came our sashimi course of well-marbled o-toro, uni, and hirame. I trained my chopsticks on the tuna first, made irresistible by its fatty white streaks. After a quick dip in soy, I took a bite of this prized cut and savored its overwhelming freshness as it melted in my mouth like butter, imparting a very distinct, gamey flavor. The golden-yellow uni was sweet and delicate, as was the hirame. Not surprising had the chef gone on a dawn visit to the Tsukiji market and carted the delicacies home himself. So far, beyond the stylized ritual and ceremonial pomp, our meal was showing a lot of promise. Our server returned bearing more treasures. Izugyu, it was later explained, is a special breed of cattle, superior to the more commonplace Wagyu or Kobe beef, of which only 1200 heads belonging to one single outlet are dispatched each year. The amazingly tender cubes, like none I’ve ever tasted, didn’t require much chewing. Lightly fried Agedashi-style to a rare doneness, its pink center exuded depth of flavor and essence that any more condiments than its own natural juices would’ve seemed a crime. Next came a colorful egg-shaped vessel of nankin manjyu, a hand-formed ball of pumpkin that was stewed then later fried. Inside was a stuffing of shrimp and enoki mushrooms.

We were all on an elevated plane of delight, according due reverence to the procession of dishes that had passed before us. Our server returned with what looked like a straw plate of karaage-style fish coiled by a strip of paper-thin bark as its garnish. How novel, I thought. It was obvious this dish carried an underlying theme of autumn. A time when trees turn an amber-red or sunset-orange shade and slowly shed their foliage to usher in the impending winter frost. A time of decay and mortality. I sat in wonderment as I stared at the profound expression of this course and proceeded to place a piece into my mouth. “Excuse me!” I called out to the waitress before she headed out the doorway. “I failed to ask: what is this dish?” Her soft voice, drowned out by the animated conversation and glee of my tablemates, mouthed off a name that curiously sounded a lot like torafugu, before taking a shallow bow and gently sliding out of the room.

A tingling, burning sensation in the mouth and throat, hypotension, arrhythmia, violent and truncated muscle twitches, asphyxia. These are telltale signs a fugu connoisseur may have bitten off more than he can chew, depending on the ingested amount of tetrodotoxin (a toxin more lethal than cyanide). Not long did I have to ponder the lurid consequences of what I was getting myself into—did I find myself swallowing this benign-looking cutlet heightened with a squeeze of lemon. This was the anticlimactic equivalent of staring down a precipice, mustering up enough courage to go on that maiden bungee jump . . . only to be pushed off by some lout before the instructor is done going through the waiver. Without a doubt, an extremely premature freefall into the unknown.

Needless to say, when holding a pack of fish sperm sacs in your hand, one would be hard-pressed to mask any obvious form of gag reflex at the thought of eating it. 

Nervous laughter ensued with each deliberate mastication. It is said that some gourmet daredevils actually request for just enough toxin to remain on the fish to be able to feel that tingling numbness in the mouth and experience that momentary peepshow into the void. Others go a bit further. Like popular Kabuki actor Bando Mitsugoro VIII who in 1975 satiated his appetite for the delicacy by demanding four servings of liver (where most of the toxins are situated) along with his meal. As he could not be refused, he had his fill of the portentous treat and consequently kicked the bucket.

A buzz drilled my nape as I carried on with my meal while beads of sweat accompanied every labored breath . . . O.K., I exaggerate. Honestly, I felt not the least bit imperiled. This, after the mounting warnings and my erstwhile defiance, was not the adrenaline-laced thrill-ride I was looking for. Weird as it may sound, I felt a bit disappointed. All things being said about the fear and notoriety surrounding the pufferfish: at the end of the day, all I had was a very good, albeit ordinary piece of fish.

As our nervous excitement wore off, we were served aigamo sarada or pickled duck salad, meaty pieces of breast meat in a tart dressing. After which, some more helpings of fresh sushi came our way: salmon roe, maguro, izaki, tamago. We rounded out our meal with a dessert platter of quite possibly the most decadent of Japanese confections: sweet muskmelon, dripping with its own syrup, a luscious cream-filled frozen strawberry, and yokan (sweet bean  jelly).

Standing stunned in a puddle of steaming broth and strewn vegetables as an incensed chef hurls bowls and invectives en masse is nothing short of an apprentice’s perfect nightmare. For Chef Tomo (a name he prefers we adopt for reasons undisclosed), stirring the nabe (hotpot) too slow or not flavoring it enough can lead to such a predicament. Having honed his cooking skills in the kitchens of Ikebukuro, Tokyo, Chef Tomo is as committed to his chosen discipline as he is enigmatic. Spending 10 rigorous years forming a strong base for his craft, he was only able to obtain his specialized fugu license after having first reached the distinction of Master Chef. As such, a chef is mandated by law to not only expertly clean the fish and rid it of its poison, but to also eat the prepared fugu before serving it to his customers; we personally wanted to meet the man in whose hands we momentarily placed our lives.

He slipped in quietly offering nothing more than a formal bow before dropping to his knees on the tatami mat as he rested his hands on his lap. A youthful-looking 40-year-old with short-cropped hair, he was receptive of our praise, and very rightfully so. His passion and self-command were manifest. At the way he observed each of us and at the way his message permeated every single course, this guy knew his stuff. A whole new universe of dining had at once been opened to me that day, and I wanted more. Being the curious, inquisitive foodie that I am, my gears started clicking as I laid the proposal on the table. . . .
 
At the over-matured sushi,
The Master
Is full of regret
–Yosa Buson (1716–1784)
 
Putting on my kitchen-whites as I prepared for my brief apprenticeship, a sense of calmness befell me. This in no way mirrored the winding road leading to what would be my latest kitchen assignment. As the chef spoke virtually no English, my only recourse was to utterly depend on the two waitresses who did double-duty as interpreters to get my message across accurately hoping that my body language and lack of cultural nuance would not betray me and cost me this unique chance. I lobbied and practically invited myself to work in his kitchen through phone calls and the occasional visit made over a span of weeks. As Chef Tomo had never allowed for outsiders to work in his kitchen before, I had to make a strong case and convince the chef that I was out to learn and assist, not to infringe on his precious time.

It was like any other slow Saturday afternoon. At 2 P.M., a mustachioed Japanese purveyor walked in carrying a Styrofoam box of fresh deliveries. The chef asked him into one of the rooms and proceeded to sign important release documents before engaging him in a brief chat. As this was happening, I was holed in a far corner of the restaurant trying my best to set the mood and get into character.

A tingling, burning sensation in the mouth and throat, hypotension, arrhythmia . . . asphyxia. These are telltale signs a fugu connoisseur may have bitten off more than he can chew.

I had never worked in the kitchen of a Japanese chef and knew nothing of how to conduct myself. Since the distance between our verbally comprehending each other was a veritable chasm, I had to be sensitive to visual cues and quick on my feet. Not long did I have to harmonize with my surroundings was I immediately summoned into the spotless workstation.

My first task was to cut open the box and unload the deliveries. I pulled out items that were at once familiar to me such as fresh wasabi root and muskmelon. I called them out loudly in hopes of gaining the chef’s nod and approval. Next out came a plastic-filmed container of ominous white globules I could not quite identify. Being much aware, however, of the bizarre nature of certain Japanese delicacies, I was somehow afraid to ask. “Shirako!” said the chef as he pulled out a state-of-the-art translating device. He punched in the word as he rubbed on his belly while pointing at my direction. I met this odd gesture with a blank stare as we waited a few seconds for its meaning to flash onscreen: FISH MILT, SOFT ROE.

Needless to say, when holding a pack of fish sperm sacs in your hand, one would be hard-pressed to mask any obvious form of gag reflex at the thought of how anyone would possibly find enjoyment in eating this. But not wanting to offend sensibilities, I soldiered on, managing a false smile as I lowered the specimen. Gently pushing it away, I wanted nothing to do with it. I then pulled out a whole piece of hirame (right-eye flounder), followed by salmon, then Isaki (a variety of pigfish). The chef made sure to point out a gold label attached to each fish signifying the highest standard of quality and freshness imaginable, all of which are hallmarks of his  ingredients.

As he laid the flounder on the shrine-like sushi counter, I squeezed through the tight space behind him, flanking his right side. I maintained proper distance yet made sure to stay close enough to catch every single detail. He began by first scaling the hideous, brown creature with his razor-sharp Tojiro Pro Composite. After which, he ran the blade the entire length of its side unveiling its pristine, white flesh after cleaning it thoroughly under running water. The deftness and precision he exhibited with every zip of the knife showed a man with deep connections to the centuries-old rudiments of his craft. In giving him more room to maneuver, I inadvertently backed into a low-lying shelf with my shoulder, causing the neatly stacked ceramic-fired dishes and bowls to rumble. The chef was undeterred. His focus remained intact as he proceeded to break down the rest of the fish into manageable pieces. I clutched at my chest as I steadied the shelf, heaving what could have easily been my last in that kitchen.

“Why’d you miss a button?” he said in Japanese as he furrowed his brow and pointed to my coat. In correcting the minor infraction, this gave me insight to the attention to detail paid by this chef. Of how intricate the execution of a Kaiseki meal should be. From the fusion of ingredients to the thematic garnish and serving platters to the choreography in which they are each served. Clear indicators of unyielding discipline. No shortcuts, just concise results—every time. I noticed this during my prep work. He demonstrated by finely mincing the carrots. Down to the exact millimeter, he challenged me to do the same. He keenly watched as I peeled and diced the potatoes to be later used for the manjyu. Even in the way I stirred the eggs and diced chicken using a makeshift mixer made of pronged chopsticks, a certain rhythm had to be followed as it evenly cooked over a hot stove to be later used as an egg dish.

My brief kitchen session came to a close a few intense hours later. I thanked Chef Tomo for offering me just a mere glimpse into the workday of a certified Kaiseki master, and he was visibly pleased for having me there. The experience left a lasting imprint, not likely to be forgotten.

Returning to the hallway of Taka was the highlight of my week. I hadn’t stopped telling my girlfriend Rosanna about my previous dining and working exploits over the weekend, and how within such cramped quarters was contained a concentration of culinary talent. We were the only guests that night, as Chef Tomo prefers that no two separate groups occupy the same seating. In that way, the diners may have his complete and undivided attention as he prepares their exquisite meal. Exhaling another workday away, we made ourselves comfortable as we sipped our hot black tea and waited for our first course to be served.

“The thrill is in not knowing,” I reassured her as our waitress presented two dishes, our first of many surprises. Inspecting the tray, I guessed what we were having that night. “This to the left of the tray is definitely yuba,” I said as I plucked the single matzutake mushroom on top of it. I proceeded to lift the lid off the second bowl to reveal what lay within: a tiny yellow flower along with grated pink radish, and amidst a swirl of ponzu sauce, three very familiar-looking globules. I was incredulous, as I had sudden bothersome flashbacks unpacking the Styrofoam delivery box days before. As the fates cruelly dictated, I was meant to overcome a very legitimate food phobia that very instant. So without hesitation and with my eyes shut, I dove right in and met it head-on. To my surprise, it wasn’t all that bad. Save for the unsettling visuals and vile texture, all I tasted upon the fish sac’s imminent bursting in my mouth was a very neutral-tasting, lightly saline fluid the consistency of skim milk. After fully revealing to Rosanna what it really was that she ate, I could see that she wasn’t too pleased.

Next up was an elaborate nigiri sushi showcase served in a bowl that resembled an upturned turtle shell. The garnishes (a rock, bark, flowers and leaves) were all put together to represent the richness of nature and highlight its fresh bounty: toro, salmon, scallop, ikura (salmon roe), flounder, and a very raw (grey) sweet shrimp. This went exceptionally well with shots of cold Shintarari shochu.

We were carried away by many dishes that night, such as the Hokkaido Manjyu (fried potato ball stuffed with chicken) and Junzai Sunumono (tosatsu jelly with fish stock). Most notable, however were the Tamago Yaki: grilled salmon over egg, wrapped in purple-hued plastic like an elaborate present and the Kani Shinjo, little fried packets of crab, enveloped in yuba and brimming with flavor.

As the curtains fell on yet another rousing performance, we polished off what was left of our desserts. I proposed a toast to the lessons learned and newfound respect for the exuberant celebration that is Kaiseki. Where one does not resist nor demand, but humbly submits and enjoys where that unfamiliar wonder takes him. As we stepped out into the near-empty street, bathed in soft moon glow, I was once again reminded of another of Basho’s many classical references:
 
Temple bells die out
The fragrant blossoms remain.
A perfect evening! 

Taka is located at 822 Tesoro’s Bldg., Arnaiz Ave., Makati. Call 338-0081 or (0919) 481-5822. Reservations required.