Nagoya Soul Food

After a few days in the crisp, cool sunshine of Matsumoto, I took the train down to Nagoya where I stepped out on to the bustling streets in a gloomy drizzle.  It made for a jarring transition, going from . . . maybe the quaintest 200,000+ population city imaginable, with its glistening spring water and clear mountain views, to a city frequently referred to as the “Detroit of Japan.”  Nagoya anchors the Chukyo region, the largest industrial and manufacturing center in Japan (Toyota is headquartered in nearby – you guessed it – Toyota city) and the city has the gritty, no-nonsense character one might expect of the capital of Japan’s Steel Belt.  I say steel instead of rust because, though it does not try to hide its blue-collar roots, the streets hum with an energy indicative of its continued economic vitality.  In fact, I would suggest that the “Houston of Japan” might be a more appropriate comparison, even if the tourism board is still unlikely to make it the centerpiece of their next marketing campaign.

Regardless, the truth is that Nagoya is not particularly photogenic – even in the city center the streets are uncharacteristically wide for a Japanese city, which makes the large office buildings seem cold and hulking in a way they do not in Tokyo or Osaka.  But the city has its own unique charm nonetheless, and the same can be said of its food.  In fact, the delicious (if not particularly refined) local cuisine of Nagoya (Nagoya meshi) makes the city a top domestic food destination among Japanese tourists.  Much of it has a hearty “soul food” feel to it – miso katsu, a deep-fried pork cutlet covered in rich miso sauce, eats like a sensibly-portioned chicken-fried steak.  The fried chicken wings (tebasaki) made famous at shops like Yamachan, seasoned liberally with a peppery spice mixture, are, well, fried chicken wings.  Miso nikomi udon sees the slippery noodles topped with negi onion, chicken, fishcake, and a raw egg and served in a rich, bubbling miso sauce in a hot earthenware pot.  Even at the more genteel end of Nagoya meshi spectrum, the local specialty of grilled eel over rice called hitsumabushi has a satisfying rib-sticking quality thatpractically begs to be washed down with a cold beer.

This predilection of the people of Nagoya for rich, intensely savory food extends to their preference in miso as well.  In fact, hatcho miso, originally produced southeast of Nagoya in the city of Okazaki but enjoyed all over the region, is probably the most famous regional style in all of Japan.  It is a dark, strongly flavored red miso that is notable for being a mame miso, or “bean miso.”  But before we get too stuck into the details one of the most distinctive syles, we should probably take a moment to discuss miso more generally.

Miso is, of course, the savory fermented soybean paste so integral to Japanese cooking.  Likely developed from techniques borrowed from the continent (c.f. Korean doenjang and Chinese doubanjan), most miso in Japan today is made by blending mashed cooked soybeans with rice koji (rice on which spores of the mold Aspergillus oryzae have been propagated), salt, and water and allowing the mass to ferment.  Koji, the “national mold of Japan” also used in soy sauce and sake production, is essential to much Japanese fermentation by virtue of its ability to produce enzymes that break down both complex starches into simple sugars (amylase) as well as proteins into their constituent amino acids (protease).  Rice is the most common medium on which to grow the mold, which is then combined with other fermentables (e.g., more rice in sake production, soybeans in miso, soybeans and wheat in soy sauce) to activate these enzymatic processes.  In miso, the protease breaks down the proteins in the soybeans into amino acids like glutamate and aspartate, making the proteins more digestible while increasing the savory umami flavor.  Furthermore, the rice itself undergoes saccharification and contributes sweetness to the finished product.  For example, sweet white misos like Kyoto’s famous saikyo miso are not only aged less than the darker, richer red misos favored in Tokyo, but the proportion of koji rice to soybean is significantly higher which helps account for their sweet, mellow flavor.

Though certainly most common, steamed rice is not the only substrate on which koji mold (kabi) can be grown.  Other grains can be used, and indeed chunky barley (mugi) miso is the preferred style on the southern island of Kyushu.  For hatcho miso, the koji is grown on soybeans, which are then mixed in with more soybeans, salt, and water, so the final product emerges from long aging (2+ years) with relatively little sweetness but an intense umami punch that comes as a result of off-the-chart levels of savory aminos.  This not only gives Nagoyans’ miso soup more “oomph” than that in most other areas of Japan, but it is also responsible for the unique character of local dishes like miso katsu, miso nikomi udon, doteni (a stew of “variety meats” like beef tendon or pork guts, vegetables, and miso), and miso oden (assorted items like daikon, fishcake, egg, konnyaku, tofu, etc simmered in a miso broth).  It would feel fitting to now make some hyperbolic claim about how the character of the regional miso is reflected in the character of the people, but that would just be silly; the fact is I don’t know enough Nagoyans nearly well enough to make such an assertion.  And besides, if that is the case then how do you explain Osakans?

But I digress.  The fact remains, Nagoyans are known throughout Japan for not only the unique character of their miso, but also the gusto with which they consume it.  And when Japanese from other parts of the country look at a city and say, “now those people really like miso,” then I think that’s saying something.  And as long as the food is as delicious as the katsu, udon, and other dishes I tasted while in Nagoya, then I say you can count me a fan as well.