The Dining Table

I must have been blessed by the god of food. Though I’ve never cooked myself, there has always been someone nearby holding the ladle. At home, my mother’s cooking speaks for itself. While studying in Japan, it was Michael who took on the task of preparing our dinners, and over time, I began referring to him in my essays as the "Chef.”

Before heading abroad, I had seriously considered improving my cooking skills. But as the saying goes, garbage in, garbage out. I remained the same as ever.

Kyoto is full of traditional restaurants, many with legacies stretching back a hundred years or more. It sounds like paradise for a food lover. But as a student, life still required a certain degree of restraint. The restaurants we could afford were limited, and eventually, even the most flavorful dishes grew familiar.

Now and then we would go to Washinrou after class for Shanghainese food, or visit the Indian restaurant near campus for extra-spicy curry and unlimited naan. Sometimes we picked up futomaki from the supermarket. But most evenings, we ate at home. The staples were homestyle dishes like braised pork belly and twice-cooked pork. Occasionally, we made drunken chicken rolls with huadiao wine. Boneless chicken would be rolled, marinated, chilled, then sliced and topped with a few goji berries for a beautifully presented dish. As the seasons changed, so did the ingredients. In summer, we made chilled dishes with sansho pepper. In autumn, matsutake mushroom rice.

Winters in Kyoto are gray and heavy, so we looked to the festivities for warmth and color. One year, we bought two boxes of crab legs during a year-end sale on Rakuten to have a proper hot pot. To make a rich pork bone broth, Chef went to the market for bones and simmered them for two full days. I worried our cooker might not survive the task. When the meal was finally served, we had a fragrant soup base, beef from Ginkakuji Onishi, and a rainbow of Kyoto vegetables neatly arranged in a bamboo basket beside the bright red crab legs. As the steam from the hot pot filled the room, we soon had to open the windows to vent the moisture, fearing it might seep into the walls and give the landlord trouble when we moved out.

You might wonder what role someone like me plays at the table, someone with no technical skills beyond taking photos or writing. But never underestimate the aftermath of a good feast, the mountain of dishes left behind requires dedication too. Even though I nearly dozed off while scrubbing, that night remains one of my warmest winter memories.