Month: April 2019

Japan and sake go way, way back. So far back that the origins of sake are a bit vague, fading and disintegrating into dust as the records get older. A 3rd century Chinese text, “Records of the Three Kingdoms” refers to the Japanese as drinking something like it and dancing. It wasn’t until the 16th century that knowledge of distillation came to Japan and the drink known as “Imo-sake” started being made by monks in temples around Kyoto. With that in mind, I headed to an unbelievably tiny restaurant in Kyoto, praised for the sashimi made nightly there by the smiling old couple who own the place.

I’m a big fan of hot sake. The warmth spreading from your mouth up into your face and then languidly out along your limbs on a chilly evening is bliss. It has a smooth, slightly nutty aroma and taste that gently reminds you of the rice it’s fermented from. But on this particular evening I’m told by the old man that “Hot sake means not good. Cold means good.” In the spirit of imbibing as the locals do, I sample the chilled sake and find that when served cold there is simply less of the flavors that I prefer. They’re still there, but tamed down a bit by the cold. Also, while the rainy chill in the air is taken away a little by the drink, tasted from the unbelievably cute tiny cups it is poured into, I find that served warm it’s a more powerful weapon against the wintry weather.

The sake business in Japan took a pounding during World War II from rice shortages and the introduction of beers and western liquors, the sexy newcomers to the party. Sake’s popularity has steadily declined in Japan ever since, with fewer and fewer brewers in operation every year. Along with a growing fascination with things western, the Japanese seem to have lost interest in this drink as old as their nation. Strangely though the popularity has been increasing throughout most of the rest of the world, where sake is brewed and enjoyed more and more every year.

“Nihonshu no Hi,” Japan’s official World Sake Day, is October 1 every year, which is a perfect time of year to enjoy a sip of this smooth, warming brew. If you haven’t tried it, give it a taste, both chilled and warm. See what you prefer. Write a haiku and say a thank you to those monks of Japan’s ancient past who pioneered this tasty drink and danced the night away.

After a long flight, a night in a crumbling, moldy motel, a full day’s bus ride sitting next to a man with a violently screaming anus, a taxi ride with a raging driver who won’t stop yelling stories about Uber drivers raping and murdering anyone who gets in their car, and a few miles of trekking through the sleet with your guitar, the idea of a drink sounds pretty damned good. If you’re in this part of China the only drink you’re going to find is one made by the Chinese government. That means the bottle with the red star.

When I arrived and found the corner store it was clear very quickly that things were going to be a bit different here. The smiles of Vietnam, bright as a Saigon sunrise, were long gone. The Chinese know how to work, and there is a sense in the air of intention to get shit done. There is also a taste palette that strays far beyond the wildest fringes of Western exploration. What we call “Chinese food” in America is not remotely the food of China. As an example, the corner stores stock snacks of chicken feet, in case you’re feeling a bit hungry.

My goal was not a chicken foot though, I was looking for a drink. Lo and behold, there on the shelf was a stock of the government approved Red Star booze. Not knowing what I was in for, I also picked up a bottle of something that looked like 7-Up, just in case.

I had scrounged up a bed to sleep in on the outskirts of the Mutianyu village and, after shaking off the snow and cracking open the bottle, I poured myself two fingers of the stuff. Immediately I thought I had made some sort of terrible mistake and purchased a paint stripper or automotive cleaner of some kind. It smelled strongly of industrial solvent and the taste went straight to the heat, bitter, and caution parts of my tongue. Immediately I felt an alarming burning in my gut and feared that I had ingested something toxic. I don’t speak any of the countless Chinese languages, and don’t have the first idea what I’d do in case of an accidental self-poisoning while visiting. There is no phone that I know of and as I wheeze and hack into the sink I wonder if I’ll die here, staring wistfully out into the snowy countryside at broken pieces of the Great Wall in the snow like massive gnarled teeth across a mountain range.

After a few breaths I started to feel reassured that it wasn’t a poison or engine cleaning compound, just the local booze. I tried adding a splash of the clear soda in hopes that some candy flavoring might make it taste a little more cocktail-like, but no dice. In fact, it was worse. Now it just tasted like jet fuel that somehow was infused with cotton candy. Or perhaps like a child with an armful of snow cones had fallen tragically into a vat of vodka, pissing herself while falling, then been pulverized by merciless machines into a government regulated spirit intended only for new recruits at boot camp as a test of their patriotism.

I was not, dear reader, able to finish the pint. But that night I slept like the dead and awoke the next morning to blazing blue skies and a walk along the Great Wall that was subtly infused with the dreams the Red Star bottle had planted in me. China has a magic to it that is unlike anywhere else. Their weird fear of the internet, distrust of the outside world, and faintly toxic boozes are only part of the picture. If you can make it to China to see it for yourself, I highly recommend it. I would, however, avoid the Red Star booze.