Recently, my days have been filled with practical matters. Tying up loose ends and preparing for my trip to Japan. I have been learning Japanese and also going to a local Japanese café to get me in the mood. It’s working. I am incredibly fortunate that just a short way from where I stay is a café called Mochi Coffee. I think that fate must have known that mochi is my most favourite food in the world.
I discovered this wonderful food when I was in Taiwan 8 years ago, on the road from Taipei to the countryside of Hualien. Our tour guide stopped at a shop, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, famous for all kinds of flavours of this wonderful sweet. I ate one with peanut and one with black sesame, and to this day they are still my favourite flavours. I later learned that this is a sweet which Taiwan adopted from Japan.
Naturally then, years later when I made trips to Tokyo, I searched for mochi each time. In fact, the first time I went to Tokyo, I was in luck. I went for two weeks during the Christmas period, which also happened to coincide with the Emperor’s birthday. I read on some obscure website that some people celebrate this day by making mochi… and apparently there would be a festival in one particular temple within metropolitan Tokyo. I convinced my boyfriend at the time that we must go, even though there was no where else on the internet that confirmed the details. So, we did it.
We took the metro to Bunkyo-ku station early one Saturday morning, and walked to where the supposed temple was. Unfortunately, there were many, many stairs which led to the temple courtyard. My boyfriend at that time had just finished a big week of work and didn’t have the energy to climb up the stairs. He was not particularly willing, especially because we couldn’t hear anything from ground level. It was quiet, serene and we could only hear the birds. As if everyone was still asleep. But I convinced him, and we climbed all the way up.
As soon as we arrived at the top, we walked through a beautiful wooden gate. The cylindrical wooden panels were painted rich red. A tiled roof floated on top… blue-grey, simple and elegant as is typical in Japanese style. As if stumbling upon a secret, we saw a group, quietly enthusiastic, surrounding two people who were working with a hammer and bucket. One of these people, a kind-faced lady who wore a bandana, was rubbing something in the bucket with what seemed like flour. She removed her hands at the right moment, as the person holding the hammer beat down on the contents of the bucket. They were each shouting something in Japanese, as if encouraging each other to keep going. It was as if I had found treasure, my eyes were so wide. They were making mochi, they had to be.
An elder man dressed in a kimono saw us and acted in a swift and gentle way. He smiled and talked with us in English, waving us over to a well at the back of the courtyard closer to the temple door. This is where you wash your hands he explained, and so we did as he said. I will never forget how happy he was to see us and introduce us to an aspect of his culture.
After we washed our hands, he showed us how to do something else – although I don’t quite remember what. This was a few years ago now. I think that we had to ask for a blessing or show respect to something. My mind was not working very well at that moment, so I just bowed without thinking. I was just so genuinely excited to be welcomed and a part of this gathering.
Slowly, he took us towards where the bucket was and started talking to the lady with the bandana. Then, he put the hammer in my hands and told me what to say. I will never forget it, and I always tell people this story with so much enthusiasm… as if a dream that I never knew I wanted had come true.
Serendipitously I was wearing a jacket that I had bought in Taiwan years ago when I had first discovered mochi. The air was fresh, and my cheeks were flushed. I saw what was inside the bucket – congealed rice. To my more westernised eyes it looked as if it were pizza dough, and I was told to slam down on it with the hammer. I started but did it softly. I did not want to be too enthusiastic and accidentally hurt the woman who was rubbing flour over the ball of rice dough with her bare hands. I repeated the words they told me slowly and hesitantly, but with a big smile on my face. After a few swipes, the elder gentleman, who I came to know was named Yoshihiro, asked me if I was tired and offered the hammer to someone else. I wanted to say no, but I somehow couldn’t. I handed over the tool and decided to simply feel grateful.
We then stood to the side, with Yoshihiro and his wife, and watched the rest of the process. It didn’t take long. They then cooked the mochi in a soup and we each had a bowl, enjoying the cool of the early winter. It was the first time I realised that mochi could also be savoury. To me, the taste didn’t matter… it automatically had a beautiful flavour, because of the kindness of a stranger. I took his details and we have stayed in touch until this day.
Mochi coffee is a small café in Juan les Pins which brings me back to this wonderful moment, and many other memories of my time in Japan. How do I explain my attachment to Japanese culture and people to the staff there? I am hoping they see it in my eyes.
These days, I go to this café after I finish my daily tasks. It’s a beautiful time to go… the afternoon sunlight filters into the glass windows of the store, slicing the seating area in half. I normally try to sit in the sun, and look upon the textured mural of mount Fuji (I assume) which remains in the shade. Just beneath the painting, a wooden bench with high chairs is provided from which you can feel the impasto-like dollops on the wall. Sometimes I fantasise that I am really back in Japan, looking at that mountain again.
I sit with a small coffee and a big portion of mochi, taking each bite slowly and enjoying flavours that the owner may have created from her own imagination. Raspberry and lychee, rose and pistachio, kinako and peatnut. They have the classics too… black sesame, red bean, and even Ichigo Daifuku. I can’t express to them, how each bite reminds me of the treasured moments I have spent in Japan and Taiwan. So I don’t. I just sit, smile and appreciate. Sometimes words are not sufficient, but rather something intangible is conveyed in a way that holds no logic.
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