Gyokuro Marriage
This morning, I brewed some Gyokuro. It was Tsuyuhikari from Asahina. I poured hot water into a small teapot and filled a white teacup with just a tiny amount. Looking at the quantity, one might think, "Is that it?" but when you take a sip, there is a whole world there. It is not so much sweet as it is savory. Not so much quiet as it is deep. I have been thinking lately that Gyokuro is less of a luxury tea and more of a drinkable dashi.
When you reach middle age, your morning cup starts to get mixed up with your philosophy. When I was young, I just wanted something hot and strong to wake me up. It is different now. If it is too hot, it is astringent. If you are too rushed, it becomes sloppy. Gyokuro seems to see right through my impatience, quietly telling me, "Calm down." Even though I am always eager to reach conclusions at work, I am easily exposed in front of my tea. I may think I am managing the water volume and time with the mind of a process engineer, but in the end, it is the tea leaves that are training me.
So, while drinking the Gyokuro, I thought: this is not just for Japanese sweets. In fact, wouldn't it go well with sashimi? Not sashimi drenched in soy sauce, but sashimi eaten in a quiet way—with just a pinch of salt, a little bit of yuzu peel, and a tiny amount of wasabi. If I were to try it, white fish would be best. A small slice of sea bream or flounder cured in kelp. Pairing that with Gyokuro—just imagining it, I am sure it is the right answer.
The umami of the Gyokuro slips in behind the sashimi and extends the flavor. This is the interesting part. Soy sauce creates a contour, but Gyokuro creates a lingering finish. The yuzu lifts the aroma upward, and the wasabi cleanses the back of the nose just a little. It is not flashy. But precisely because it is not flashy, it is just right for a tongue that has aged. The days of solving the world with barbecue sauce like I did when I was young are over. No, I still love barbecue, but it is not something to talk about first thing in the morning.
This is even more interesting because I live in Shizuoka. There is Asahina Gyokuro, there is seafood from the ocean, there is wasabi, and there is yuzu. Because the mountains and the sea are so close, the scenery connects within a small teacup. I gave it the slightly fancy name "Gyokuro Marriage," but what I am doing is actually quite simple. Just pairing local delicacies with a little bit of care. That alone makes daily life a little deeper.
If you do it at home, you do not need elaborate preparations. A little white fish sashimi. Kelp-cured if possible. Sea salt, yuzu peel, wasabi. For the Gyokuro, take your time with the first brew at a low temperature. That is enough to have a good time. Yuba, scallops, or whitebait would also work. I think Gyokuro is not "hard to touch because it is high-end," but rather a drink that "responds to you when you treat it with care."
Coffee is the same. Just by changing the roasting or extraction slightly, the same beans show a completely different face. Gyokuro is the same; there is a dialogue between the tea leaves and the water. The difference might be that if coffee is a drink of fire, Gyokuro is a drink of water and space. I like both, so if I could structure my day with Gyokuro in the morning, coffee in the afternoon, and different music at night, that wouldn't be bad at all.
Lately, I feel that these small pleasures are connected to my future life of moving around. Rather than a big house or impressive equipment, things that can be enjoyed deeply with small tools and a little ingenuity are better suited for a life on the move. One teapot, two teacups, a piece of yuzu, a slice of fish. That alone brings the morning of that land to life. Even while moving, life does not become thin. It might even become richer.
Next time, I think I will try it with sea bream cured in kelp. A little yuzu peel, a tiny amount of wasabi, and the first brew of Asahina Gyokuro. If I could savor a bite like that before work, I think I could work in a slightly better mood that day. For a middle-aged man's morning, that is quite an excellent start.