Ten People, Ten Flavors
It reminds me of a discussion I had in a college class about music. In the West, our ears gravitate toward clean, precise notes and familiar rhythms. But what sounds off-key to one person can sound perfectly normal, even comforting, to someone raised in a different cultural environment. Food is the same way.
Among the pantheon of sushi cuisine, one appetizer that stands out as what I would call safe to the taste buds of the Western tourist is “茶碗蒸し(chawanmushi).” It is a savory egg custard served in a small teacup, packed with slices of fish cakes, chicken, shrimp and our unlikely friend—the gingko nut.
Chawanmushi is typically served as an appetizer to sushi or it appears as one of the side dishes in traditional Japanese course dinners called “会席料理 (kaiseki ryōri).” It's piping hot, and I cannot tell you how quickly I would order it at the conveyor belt restaurants before hiding my squirm in front of my friends, since I told them I loved sushi not knowing they didn’t serve California rolls.
Typically when introduced to new food you get to meet the ingredients first, and then they are made into whatever dish is on the menu. Or at least, that is what a lot of the cooking shows in Japan have conditioned me to understand. But chawanmushi for me was the opposite. It was something I ate, before I knew what was in it, because it was… cooked.
First, the best part about it is that it typically does not contain any pork. Which is a big win for me because of my religious restrictions. If you are so far worried about whether or not the chicken itself is halal, that is a different discussion.
Among the ingredients however is the gingko nut. I never knew about it before I came to Japan. Or maybe I did, but never really paid attention or just haven’t made that connection in my brain yet.
The nut becomes soft when it is boiled, and it is consistent in texture next to the silky smooth egg custard. The flavor is minimal, and other than providing something a tad thicker among the mix. Because I cannot recall what it tastes like. I never thought twice about it, it was always just there.
One day, I was walking through the street with my family. We were enjoying the fall foliage, and the change in the weather. It was a beautiful day. We got to a point where the street began to stick, and a wave of a foul smell overcame me. It was the kind of smell that either exists in a belly button or under your toenails. It was foul, and I made a snarky comment
One day, I was walking through the street with my family. We were enjoying the fall foliage, and the change in the weather. It was a beautiful day. We got to a point where the street began to stick, and a wave of a foul smell overcame me. It was the kind of smell that either exists in a belly button or under your toenails. It was foul, and I made a snarky comment
My wife looked at me in amusement. “That is ginkgo fruit, their nuts are in chawanmushi.” I was really surprised, and it made me wonder. If I knew that the nuts came from such a stinky fruit would I have dared to try it? Does that mean other off-putting foods in Japan are actually good? Am I too picky?
The encounter had me thinking a lot about food in general. Who was the first person to ever find out that the gingko nut was edible? I began to imagine the scenario in which the first ever gingko nut eater encountered the fruit and its smell, but somehow thought to boil it and eat it anyway. The thought train brought me to a question that I was easily able to answer.
Am I missing out on potentially delicious experiences because of my pickiness?
The encounter had me thinking a lot about food in general. Who was the first person to ever find out that the gingko nut was edible? I began to imagine the scenario in which the first ever gingko nut eater encountered the fruit and its smell, but somehow thought to boil it and eat it anyway. The thought train brought me to a question that I was easily able to answer.
Am I missing out on potentially delicious experiences because of my pickiness?
I was able to overcome my fear of raw food. I got used to eating seaweed, kelp, and bonito flakes. Those flakes have a weird smell too, but that is not a problem. But what about the final boss of funk? Can something as smelly as natto be that bad?
Short answer: Some mysteries are best left alone, but that doesn’t mean I would prevent others from exploring different flavors and developing their own palettes.
Short answer: Some mysteries are best left alone, but that doesn’t mean I would prevent others from exploring different flavors and developing their own palettes.
Watching my daughter grow up in a world completely different from the one that raised me is still mind-boggling. Where I would cringe at the thought of going near natto (here is what it is), she jumps with excitement at the prospect of eating those strong-smelling, fermented beans. Meanwhile, she spits out anything with even a hint of banana. Go figure.
As foreign as this world feels sometimes, it has helped me understand myself. One of my all-time favorite Syrian dishes is kishik. It’s fermented yogurt, dried and ground into powder, then cooked into a soup full of lentils, dried mint, and pita bread. Everyone makes their kishik a little differently—think of it the way people talk about gumbo.
As a kid, I devoured that dish like I wasn’t sure I would live to see tomorrow. Even now, just describing it while living so far from home makes my mouth water and my stomach growl.
I still remember one day when we had fresh kishik ready in the morning. My mom’s white friend came over with her niece and nephew. I loved when they visited—they were the only ones I felt I could be unapologetically myself around—unapologetically arab. When outside, especially at school, I downplayed my heritage as much as I could, but it was not easy when your mother wore a hijab.
The kishik was still hot when I offered them some. They looked at me like I was handing them poison. No amount of pleading or assurance could get them to try it. I was stunned—how could something so deeply tied to my happiness repulse someone else?
That bothered me for years.
And then, thirty years later, I watched my daughter take her first bite of natto… and love it. That’s when it finally clicked.
One of my favorite Japanese proverbs sums up what I never understood as a kid:
As foreign as this world feels sometimes, it has helped me understand myself. One of my all-time favorite Syrian dishes is kishik. It’s fermented yogurt, dried and ground into powder, then cooked into a soup full of lentils, dried mint, and pita bread. Everyone makes their kishik a little differently—think of it the way people talk about gumbo.
As a kid, I devoured that dish like I wasn’t sure I would live to see tomorrow. Even now, just describing it while living so far from home makes my mouth water and my stomach growl.
I still remember one day when we had fresh kishik ready in the morning. My mom’s white friend came over with her niece and nephew. I loved when they visited—they were the only ones I felt I could be unapologetically myself around—unapologetically arab. When outside, especially at school, I downplayed my heritage as much as I could, but it was not easy when your mother wore a hijab.
The kishik was still hot when I offered them some. They looked at me like I was handing them poison. No amount of pleading or assurance could get them to try it. I was stunned—how could something so deeply tied to my happiness repulse someone else?
That bothered me for years.
And then, thirty years later, I watched my daughter take her first bite of natto… and love it. That’s when it finally clicked.
One of my favorite Japanese proverbs sums up what I never understood as a kid:
十人十色 (jūnin toiro) — “Ten people, ten colors.”
十 (“ten”) has multiple readings: jū is standard, and to is an alternate. “To” also sounds like the Japanese word と, meaning “and.” So in a sense, 十人十色 can be heard as “ten people and colors,” emphasizing individuality even down to how a single number is pronounced.
In one of my English classes, we were practicing comparatives. I jokingly asked, “Which is stinkier, gingko fruit or natto?” Normally my students would jump on a silly question like that, but most of them hesitated. From reading the air—空気を読む—it was clear I had said something that didn’t sit right with everyone.
Eventually one student said, “Natto’s smell is strong, but I don’t think Japanese people consider it stinky.” It was another lightbulb moment, and another point for the proverb.
It’s so easy to underestimate the depth of different cultural perspectives. You might think you know a person or a culture, but there will always be things that “you just wouldn’t understand.” There’s nothing wrong with not understanding—but letting yourself be humbled by that reality? That will only strengthen your character.
In one of my English classes, we were practicing comparatives. I jokingly asked, “Which is stinkier, gingko fruit or natto?” Normally my students would jump on a silly question like that, but most of them hesitated. From reading the air—空気を読む—it was clear I had said something that didn’t sit right with everyone.
Eventually one student said, “Natto’s smell is strong, but I don’t think Japanese people consider it stinky.” It was another lightbulb moment, and another point for the proverb.
It’s so easy to underestimate the depth of different cultural perspectives. You might think you know a person or a culture, but there will always be things that “you just wouldn’t understand.” There’s nothing wrong with not understanding—but letting yourself be humbled by that reality? That will only strengthen your character.
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