![Metoba River in Matsumoto Japan](https://blogs.iu.edu/easc/files/2023/06/IMG_0930-comp-300x225.jpg)
I’ve just returned to Tokyo to settle in after what has felt like nonstop travel for the past few weeks. Now that I find myself free of the stimulating yet exhausting hustle that . . . comes with moving cities every two days or so, it feels like a good time to retrace my steps a bit and reflect on some of the places I have been. Considering that my first few days in Tokyo after arriving from the US were spent catching up with friends and former colleagues over meals of classic Japanese fare like bacon cheeseburgers and Domino’s pizza (hey, life happens), perhaps it makes sense to begin our discussion of fermented food culture with my first stop after leaving Tokyo – Matsumoto.
![Black Japanese castle with red bridge in the foreground](https://blogs.iu.edu/easc/files/2023/06/IMG_0937-comp-300x225.jpg)
![Nakamachi Street in Matsumoto](https://blogs.iu.edu/easc/files/2023/06/IMG_0927-comp-300x225.jpg)
Matsumoto is an eminently charming midsize city nestled on an alluvial plain at the foot of the Northern Japanese Alps at the western edge of Nagano prefecture. Perhaps best known for its immaculately preserved Warring States era castle, I was inspired to spend some time in the city on the recommendation of writer and Japan resident Craig Mod. Matsumoto was the capital of Shinano province (the historic province roughly equivalent to modern-day Nagano prefecture), and is therefore considered a center of traditional Shinshu culture and cuisine. The mountainous inland location means that many foods usually associated with Japan in the minds of foreigners are less plentiful, such as fresh fish, sea vegetables, and even rice. Instead, local traditional specialties include the ubiquitous buckwheat (soba) noodles, horsemeat (basashi) sashimi, and even insects like bee larvae (hachi no ko) and grasshoppers (inago). Naturally, the climate and terrain also have a major influence on what types of fermented foods (hakko shokuhin) are produced in the region, and, while I did not choose to visit on the merits of its fermentation, I was pleasantly surprised to find it a worthy destination.
In addition to being known for vegetable pickles (tsukemono), the area’s relatively cool, dry climate is particularly well-suited to the making of miso and sake (nihonshu). Like many ferments, miso and sake both benefit from a “low and slow” fermentation, and Nagano’s cool conditions keep the rate of yeast and bacterial activity at a slow simmer while the lower humidity helps prohibit mold growth, a particular bane to miso producers. The region’s suitability is reflected in the fact that Nagano ranks first in Japan for miso production, accounting for nearly half of the national total. Of course, much of that is conducted on an industrial scale, though several artisanal makers still create traditional Shinshu miso by hand, more or less the same way it has been done for hundreds of years.
![Ishii Miso in Matsumoto](https://blogs.iu.edu/easc/files/2023/06/IMG_0915-comp-300x225.jpg)
![Barrels of miso at Ishii Miso in Matsumoto](https://blogs.iu.edu/easc/files/2023/06/IMG_0910-comp-300x225.jpg)
One such local producer is Ishii Miso, where I was able to tour the storerooms (kura) where miso is packed by hand into massive cedar barrels (taru) holding nearly 10,000 pounds of miso each. Ishii sells its miso aged one and three years, and miso that makes it to the full three years of aging will pass through three separate storerooms, one each for misos in their first, second, and third years of fermentation and aging. During their time in the first storeroom, the miso does not just sit idle – every few weeks the miso is transferred by hand from one barrel to another to aerate the fermenting paste and rotate it from the bottom of one barrel to the top of the next and vice versa. It is a two-person job, one worker shoveling from the first barrel into the second, balancing on a board so as to not sink into the quicksand-like miso, while a second worker stamps the paste down into the new barrel with booted feet to eliminate any air pockets that might allow mold to grow. The miso moves from one barrel to the next, its original sign board moving with it each time, until it eventually reaches the far end of the storeroom after the course of one year. After time in the final barrel, it either gets packaged and sold as one-year miso or gets moved to the second-year storage room for a year and then again on to the third-year storeroom before it is as well sold as the darker, richer (and predictably more expensive) three-year miso.
![Miso worker explaining process of making and aging miso](https://blogs.iu.edu/easc/files/2023/06/IMG_0898-comp-225x300.jpg)
While it was fascinating to see and smell the warehouse in person, I was unfortunately unable to view the initial processing of the soybeans, koji rice, and salt into the paste before it went into the cedar barrels. For one, production was not happening the day I visited, and even if it had been, the potential for contamination early in the process requires a much higher degree of precaution so the producer must tightly control who and what is allowed in the facility during production. One difficulty of making fermented foods is that one must create favorable conditions to promote the growth activity of beneficial microbes, which of course means favorable conditions for unwanted microbes as well, and the introduction of undesired fungi or bacteria early in the process could have disastrous consequences for the finished product. In fact, this fear of contamination is even more extreme in sake production, where workers are frequently forbidden to eat certain foods like natto (whole soybeans fermented with Bacillus subtilis bacteria) for fear of bringing residual live cultures into the brewery (sakagura). Since working with live active cultures renders fermentation imperfect in its predictability, traditional techniques can be just as effective as modern industrial processes. Artisanal fermentation is often considered as much an art as a science, and the brewers and masters rely as much on skills and intuition honed over years of experience as they do on scientific analysis.
![Yoikana Shuzo sake brewery in Matsumoto](https://blogs.iu.edu/easc/files/2023/06/IMG_0951-comp-300x225.jpg)
![Spring well at Yoikana Shuzo](https://blogs.iu.edu/easc/files/2023/06/IMG_0952-comp-300x225.jpg)
![Tasting room at Yoikana Shuzo](https://blogs.iu.edu/easc/files/2023/06/IMG_0955-comp-300x225.jpg)
![Sake tasting at Yoikana Shuzo](https://blogs.iu.edu/easc/files/2023/06/IMG_0957-comp-300x225.jpg)
Another major concern for sake brewers, and indeed a major reason so many can be found in and around Matsumoto, is the quality of the water used. Matsumoto sits atop a natural aquifer of pristine ground water – one can find wells and springs all over the city, many for public use, and it is this same water that makes Matsumoto such a great place to brew sake. In fact, one small sake brewery, Yoikana, has built a small shrine around their source, which sits in front of their brewery just off the street. Tucked into a quiet residential neighborhood, I stumbled across it on my way to a soba restaurant for lunch – like I said, ubiquitous. I stopped into their “tasting room” when I noticed a display of sake bottles in what otherwise looked like someone’s cluttered garage. Two older ladies were chatting over lunch at a table in the corner, so I was surprised when one hopped up and motioned me to sit down with them. She pulled out several bottles from a reach-in refrigerator and handed me a small brochure, and that’s when I realized I was at a sakagura. She proceeded to taste me on the full range of her husband’s sakes, many of which were unpasteurized (nama) and hard to find outside of the brewery, much less the city. Still trying to knock the rust off my shaky-at-best Japanese language skills, I struggled with some of the more specialized vocabulary as she explained the differences between each expression. As we chatted, several passing neighbors stopped in to say hello and then stayed to chat after they learned that I spoke a little Japanese. Once I explained that I was a student researching nihon no hakko shokuhin (Japanese fermented foods), they became excited and asked me for details about my project. They peppered me with questions – What did I think of the local sake? (delicious!) Had I tasted Shinshu miso? (yes, also delicious!) Can I eat natto? (yes!) What was American fermented food like? (relatively scarce!). They offered me recommendations on other foods to seek out, fermented and otherwise, and after a good fifteen minutes of talk about miso, sake, pickles, and natto, the neighbors bid me good luck on my project as they left to continue with their day. I thanked the proprietor and her friend sincerely as I departed in search of handmade soba with a bottle of chilled namashu under my arm.
Over lunch, I reflected on the experience I had just had. That alcoholic beverages facilitate meaningful human connection is nothing unique, and indeed can be observed every day in bars, restaurants, and living rooms around the world. However, in this case I was the only one drinking, and only small tastes at that. What struck me was that while everyone was cordial enough to begin, the conversation really took off when they realized that I was here to study fermented foods. It seemed that everyone had something to say about it, not just the brewer’s wife or the neighbor who seemed particularly enthusiastic about Shinshu miso. Of course, the idea that this conversation might be indicative of fermented food’s power to foster solidarity among an entire society, or even residents of a single community, is certainly a stretch. But the fact remains that it was a part of their culture that they all engaged with and, once I showed a little interest in the subject, were eager to share with me. And that, at the very least, makes me feel like I might be on the right track.
![Samurai frogs in Matsumoto](https://blogs.iu.edu/easc/files/2023/06/IMG_0941-comp-1024x768.jpg)
Thanks, Adam.