On Sunday, Hiyo drove Mari and me to an onsen north of Biwa lake in Shiga. Music from Miyazaki anime was playing on the stereo. Stopped at an organic food and antiques store along the way. Ate a delicious organic dinner at Haru-ya, a house that is sometimes a restaurant.
Strange guy at onsen
As I soaked naked up to my neck in steaming hot water, a wiry man in his fifities started talking to me in Japanese. I spoke my stock phrase about not knowing the language, then added, “Amerika-jin desu.” Later, I was getting out of the water to cool off when they guy motioned to get my attention. He got down on the wet floor and started doing one-armed push-ups. I humored him, nodded, and showed an impressed face. “Ah, sugoi (great, wow).” Meanwhile, the other guys sat at their washing stations and continued soaping themselves, seeming to try to ignore him. Then I went a step further. I got down on one arm and demonstrated how I couldn’t even lift myself once.
At that point I realized that, even though the guy was probably just trying to be friendly across language borders, maybe he a was a little “off” and should not be engaged.
I refreshed with some cold water, then was back at the big tiled tub dangling my legs in, when I felt something rough and scratchy on my back. I turned around, and the guy was holding a big scrubbing brush with natural bristles — the kind that Mari and I use in the kitchen to scrub the wok, but bigger. He was just showing it to me. I nodded again and looked impressed as if to say, “yep, big brush.” Then, not wanting to linger, I stood up to go to a washing station again. Now that he had my attention for a moment, he reached down with the brush and gave a little demonstration. He started scrubbing his privates, saying, “Um? Um?” as in, “See how tough? Crazy huh? Bet you can’t do this.” Hmm. It made me a little uncomfortable. But it just seemed like a little junior-high-locker-room-style shenanigans. He’s trying to have a laugh, I thought. Still, better not encourage him or he might invite me to try the brush myself. I made a wincing face and crossed my hands, “Ooh, dame desu (not good, no way),” then sort of turned away without seeming abrupt.
No awkwardness after that. I was able to finish having a quiet, relaxing soak and come out refreshed.
Organic dinner at Haru-ya
On the way back to Kyoto from Shiga along the mountain highway, we stopped for dinner at Haru-san and Yumie-san’s house, which they sometimes open for dinner. Haru-san and Yumie-san moved there from Kyoto a few years ago to give their little kids more space to grow up. The house is about one-hundred years old, country style — wide and flat — with a steep roof to dodge the snow in winter. It sits on a river in a village of similar houses. A small bridge crosses the river and connects the neighborhood to the highway. The sliding doors at the front of the house expose the living room/dining room to a view of the bridge, the river, the highway and finally, a hill’s giant green wall of trees rising straight to the sky. As you sit and look out the front of the house at the cars passing on the highway, it feels like sitting on an island, watching life pass by on the mainland.
Eating at Haru-ya feels a little like eating at someone’s home because that’s what it is. Like a restaurant, there are tables and a menu board, and the kitchen is separate from the dining area. Added to this, though, are signs of family life. Just beyond the edge of the floorboards, laundry hangs to dry, a stack of firewood waits to heat the bathtub, a kid’s storybook lies open. Four-year old Fu-chan ran around us carrying a stick, then rocked on his horsey, then played with his crayons.
Haru-san came out with three wooden trays and slowly unloaded three sets of red lacquer bowls and clay dishes full of organic vegetarian food. Tofu-gobo quiche, miso paste wrapped in a soba pancake, cold somen noodles with bean-mira-myoga dressing, potato-hijiki salad, tsukemono, kanten-hijiki-jelly, carrots with creamed tofu, vegetable miso soup with barley oats, fried soba dumplings, brown rice with umeboshi and nori, more I can’t remember. Those of you who can read the menu can get a more complete and accurate record of what we ate.
The flavors were natural and subtle. I’ve eaten a lot of Japanese food, but most of these organic vegetarian dishes felt like a new country to me. Familiar ingredients combined a new way. A healthy, wholesome and satisfying meal. Gochisousama deshita.
I have to admit, though, after all the gentle flavors, my sweet-tooth craved something naughty to slap me across the face. Some swiss hazelnut milk chocolate was waiting for me in the car. I shared it with Mari as we rode home in the dark. It just enough guilty pleasure to make the organic meal we ate before it feel all the more virtuous.