I moved to Tokyo (for the first time) 19 years ago this week. It was not until I secured a proper watering hole and bistro that I felt at home.
The search-and-find procedure did not take long given that a middle class 15 million souls has money in pocket and little time to eat at home. The watering hole was actually a sho-chu bar disguised as a sushi joint. Nested in an indiscriminate second floor walk up above the heralded Ebisu Shrine, Iwaji-Zushi was frequented by denim Jedis, sneakerheads and carefree landed gentry types. Iggy Pop would often cast a watchful eye over me as I savored sushi and my kept bottle of cheap sho-chu. He was shirtless (typical), ripped up (more typical) and brooding (need I go on). Maybe because he himself would dare not touch the carbo-hit of Niigata rice that waited beneath each cut of tai, amai-ebi and hotattei.
Now this wasn’t the REAL Iggy Pop, mind you, but a stunning bit of black and white handiwork from Annie Liebowitz. Housed in his black frame, the inky-eyed Godfather of Punk watched over all of the punters and purists that came in and out of Iwaji back in the day. The cheerful proprietor of Iwaji, Ga-chan, was a punk-forever waif who had enjoyed tours of duty in London’s east end and the West Village. Have santoku knife, will travel! He admired the Ramones, Black Flag and the Misfits, but above all he adored Iggy and the Stooges. Often late on Friday evenings, Ga-chan would regale us with tails of seeing them play an epic set at The Hammersmith Odeon.
Shortly after discovering Iwaji I came across a quaint bistro just down the alley from my tidy Meguro flat. La Fille Liliale had all the trappings of Tokyo-meets-the-Seine. Upon entering, chilly flutes of Pol Roger Champagne were dispensed with quiet grace. Delicate Uchiura Bay scallops laced with a bracing hit of yuzu followed on as the amuse bouche. Next on the undercard came bowls of vichyssoise topped with shiso all accompanied by piping hot house forged baguettes the size of a large man’s thumb. After the build up, Pepper studded Tajima steak au poivre took center stage, washed down by (mildly) over-priced claret. Petite creme brulee, espresso, tender conversation with my fiancee and calvados to finish.
It wasn’t until my third or fourth visit that I spied an unusual photograph posted over the bar that bordered the tidy chef’s kitchen. Housed inside a dark walnut frame was a grainy black and white portrait of a striking young woman adorned in full kimono. There was a noble, steadfastness about her gaze that was oddly familiar to me. I relayed my interest in the photograph to Saito-san, the stoic chef and proprietor of La Fille. Having honed his skill for eight years at a One-Star establishment in Avignon, he had sojourned back to Tokyo in 2000 to offer his cuisine to lucky souls in the neighborhood.
“That photo. It’s my mother. Yuriko.,” Saito-san replied with a grin that was both proud and sanguine all at once.
Yuriko, loosely translated, means “child of the lily flower”. Hence the French name with the same essence. Once I made the connection, I too became a bit verklempt.
I also made a vow that I too would select a patron saint of my own kitchen. If the benignant souls who took me in, slaked my thirst and filled my belly made a point to do so then I too would do likewise.
But where to begin? It felt, for a moment, like choosing my favorite sports legend and a VP ticket-mate all at once. My late mother was dismissed out of hand. Though she was the most impactful and positive influence I have ever enjoyed in life, she was also a mind-blowingly terrible cook. Her repertoire included toothy beef stroganoff, ungapatchka tuna casserole and cheap tacos. As a professional writer and ardent feminist she feined at the notion that women needed to prove their worth in the kitchen. So Karen Brownstein was out.
Next up, my dearly departed Aunt Edna, doyen of dynamite brisket, fluffy kneidlach and leader of the Jedi Order of bakers in my extended family. Although I loved Aunt Edna to pieces, I really didn’t get to watch her operate up close. Her modest galley kitchen in Wrigleyville afforded her the ability to keep the hungry masses at bay in the TV den and dining room whilst she worked her magic behind closed doors.
And then there was Sally Kiester.
Sally was the mother of my dear elementary school chum, Will, and she was one of those parents who added value to the overall friendship. Blessed with an impishly small frame, bright brown eyes and a hamishe grin, she had grown up in the Philippines and became a journalist out of Hong Kong during the Vietnam War. Life and marriage had taken her to the West Coast, and she would go on to earn a PhD from Stanford. She was a professional of note in the field of early childhood development, but to me, she was the first real cultural globalist I ever knew.
It all started with chocolate and ended with principles. The chocolate came each yuletide season where Sally, her wonderful husband, Edwin and Will would host me at their cozy ski condo in North Star. Being a Jewish kid, I always suffered some Christmas envy, and the Kiester family ensured that I could experience the best of the holiday without indulging in communion, midnight mass and holy water. Somehow, each December, Sally and Edwin would sneak away to Switzerland and return with a satchel full of the most amazing chocolate I had ever tried. This was in the days before you could grab a kitschy Toblerone bar at a convenience store (or one the size of a baby cow at Costco). So the novelty was magnificent and the chocolate to die for.
Before diving headfirst into an American Tourister pool of Baci and Lindt minis we would feast upon hearty French peasant dishes. Cassoulet, piping hot and redolent with beans, bacon and spice would be doled out alongside a crispy green salad and goblets of Châteauneuf-du-Pape for the adults.
“This casserole is amazing!” I quipped. “I know that bacon makes everything taste better, but what else is going in here, Mrs. Kiester?”
“Well, Adam dear, of course cassoulet requires confit du canard du sud ouest to impart richness and softness,” she offered.
“Confit du WHAT???” I retorted. It was as though the 6:18 pm TGV from Paris to Lyon had whizzed by me.
“Oh, Adam! You really need to expand your horizons!” she chortled with a smile.
Many years later, just before I moved to Tokyo, I found myself back at the Kiester petite chalet. Mother Nature and the low pressure systems around Lake Tahoe conspired to snow us in for a whole week. This made for epic skiing for Will (an actual ski racing legend of some note) and me. It was a Vaurnet Day EVERY day.
But the storm had closed down most every commercial establishment around. For provisions, we were left with whatever was in the larder and at the mercy of the remaining items at the local grocer. This amounted to milk and Wonder bread for the most part. Walking to the store, we were flanked by snow banks as high as a house.
“The tartiflette and beef Bourguignon I’ve prepared back at the condo will need a nice salad to lighten things up a bit on the pallet,” reflected Sally. “William, why don’t you walk ahead and buy some nice red onions and tomatoes.”
“Mom, what planet are you living on?!?!” berated Will. “We are SNOWED in! No produce supply trucks have been able to get over Donner Pass for the past five days!”
Tucked cozily in her oversized goose down puffy parka, Mrs. Kiester moved her campaign forward, paying little mind to the hurdle her son had just put in front of her.
“Nice beefsteak tomatoes. Those should set a nice backdrop to the rest of the meal. Yes. Red onions and tomatoes, William.”
It dawned on me at that moment, flanked by tall pines and this small woman, that cooking (and life itself) requires a certain kind of tenacious vision. It can get you through things, and make you whole when others might doubt you.
As a tribute to my epicurean patron saint, Sally Kiester, I would later go on to invest in Le Creuset staple pieces like those she employed for our Franco feasts . A deep casserole, a hefty skillet and a poulet pot. All in wrist-numbing cast iron and signature French blue. The set has made the rounds from New York to Tokyo to Mexico City to Seattle to Santiago to Singapore and now back to Tokyo. In 2007, when we so sadly lost Sally, I made a special pilgrimage to the butcher just to get a nice hanger steak for the skillet. I hope she would have liked it.
Bon appetit and merci!
The Tokyo Yenta 