Lavender Ice Cream

Lavender Ice Cream
Purple Haze, $4

Around 1850 settlers who reached the Sequim and Dungeness Bays at the northern end of Washington's Olympic Peninsula began to take advantage of the flat plains and fertile soil left behind by retreating glaciers and the protective "rain shadow" cast by the Olympic Mountains.  They cleared, irrigated, planted, and harvested handsomely, eventually shifting their focus from vegetables to small-scale dairies. 

A little over a century later, a new wave of settlers began to arrive, drawn to the same favorable conditions but for different reasons.  After a syndicated newspaper column for retirees published a letter praising the area's mild weather and low cost of living, the small town of Sequim experienced a population boom.   One struggling dairy farm after another was replaced by housing developments and chain stores. 

But just when it looked like nothing could check the spread of the cul-de-sacs, a Sequim civic committee convened in 1995 with the goal of revitalizing the area's agricultural traditions.  Like the settlers and the retirees, they looked at the landscape and the weather and saw yet another new solution:  lavender. 

Today Sequim has positioned itself as "America's Provence," with more than 30 local farms collaborating on events like the annual Lavender Festival, which attracts thousands of tourists in mid-July.  But visitors who arrive outside the high season don't miss out:  farmstands and shops feature a wild variety of value-added products, from sniffable sachets and soaps, to edible lavender-laced cheeses, cookies, and chocolates.  The Purple Haze farm's mainstreet shop even sells lavender and white chocolate ice cream, produced by Elevated Ice Cream in nearby Port Townsend.  

Purple Haze Lavender Shop
127 W Washington St
Sequim WA
360/683-1714

Buttermilk Lemon Sorbet

 










Buttermilk Lemon Sorbet

While I can vividly remember resenting buttermilk for not tasting like melted butter, I've since either matured enough killed off enough taste buds to appreciate this tart, old-fashioned dairy stalwart.  

Buttermilk in pancakes?  Yes!  In bran muffins?  Of course!  In this crazy-easy buttermilk lemon sorbet?  Don't get between me and my spoon!  

The buttermilk contributes an easy-to-digest but velvety richness that comes through even if you skip using an ice cream maker.  Meyer lemon juice adds another layer of tartness, so mix in just enough sugar for balance. 

Don't be put off by the large number of variables in this flexible recipe.  Using regular lemon juice instead of Meyer?  You might want a little more sugar.  Trying to cut back on the sugar?  You might want to go for the cream or milk option instead of full-on buttermilk.  If it comes out too tart, just serve with shortbread or a little chocolate syrup.


Buttermilk Lemon Sorbet

2/3 c freshly squeezed Meyer lemon juice

1 1/4 - 1 1/2 c sugar (to taste)

2 c buttermilk + 2 c other dairy (more buttermilk, cream, whole milk, kefir, etc) 

Combine the sugar lemon juice and either whisk in a bowl or shake in a sealed jar until the sugar completely dissolves. Whisk the juice together with the buttermilk and any other dairy products. Pour into a large tupperware container and chill for an hour. Transfer to the freezer and rake with a fork every 45-60 minutes to break up the ice crystals as they form.

I based my recipe on Katie at the Kitchen Door, who based hers on Rozanne Gold's Radically Simple cookbook. 

Cherry Shrub and Shrubet

Shrub

Acetic acid is powerful stuff, capable of clearing your sinuses, cleaning your bathroom, or transforming bland and perishable cucumbers into zingy pickles with a near-infinite shelf life.   

Along with water, acetic acid is the essential ingredient in vinegar--but it need not be the dominant flavor.  Brewing vinegar directly from tasty ingredients such as fruits and grains ("pure vinegars") or adding these ingredients to vinegar prior to a second, shorter fermentation process ("compound vinegars") can result in something more like a liqueur:  smooth, intense, aromatic, and even drinkable, usually as an apertif, digestif, or diluted into a kind of spritzer.  In many places, that mixture of fruit vinegar and water or soda water is known as "shrub". 

Home-brewed compound vinegars have a long history and after a quiet spell have seen a recent bump in prominence.   Making your own is easy (shrub is the jam of lazy DIYers) and relatively cheap if you use the fecund-est local fruit of the moment (in my case, cherries).  


Cherry Shrub

4 lbs cherries, washed, sorted, stemmed, and pitted
4 c vinegar (I used Bragg's apple cider; depending on your fruit you could use white, balsamic...)
1/2 c sugar (to taste)

-Put the fruit in a large non-reactive pot or several glass jars and add enough vinegar to cover.  
-Let the fruit sit, covered, at room temperature temperature for a week, stirring well each day. 
-On Day 7 or 8, stir in the sugar and heat the fruit to a low boil for about an hour.  
-Remove from the heat and when the mix is cool enough to handle, strain the liquid into clean jars.  Reserve the fruit solids (see below). 
-Mix chilled shrub with water or soda water to taste, or sip straight.  

 
















Bonus:  Shrub-et!

Why waste all that yummy fruit mush?  If shrub makes for a refreshing drink, it's off-the-charts invigorating as a frozen treat.  

leftover shrub fruit (of course this is best done with fruits such as pitted cherries that are entirely edible)
sugar to taste
water
spices and flavorings to taste
approx. 2 T vodka (depending on the volume of fruit)

-If your fruit is chunkier that you like in a frozen dessert, whizz it in a food processor.  
-Add just enough water to dissolve about 1/2 c of sugar; stir, shake in a jar, or heat gently until the sugar grains completely melt.  
-Mix the fruit and syrup.  
-Add any desired spices or flavorings (to my cherry mush I added a little cinnamon, ground cardamom, and black pepper, plus about 1 T of almond extract).  
-Stir in a little neutrally-flavored alcohol to keep the mush from freezing rock-solid. 
-Pour into a plastic tub or bowl and place in the freezer.  To create a softer texture, break up the ice crystals by raking the shrubet with a fork every hour or so as it freezes, then give it a final fluff about 15 minutes before serving. 

For more on shrub's history and resurgence in popularity, check out this NYT article. 

Sno-ball II

Sno-balls
Left: Mother Nature's Cupboard, $3
Right: Tee-Eva's, $2

Absolutely the only fault I can find with visiting New Orleans in February is the lack of sno-balls. This Louisianan delicacy of finely shaved ice topped with flavored syrup and condensed milk is a summertime staple but in the off-season most sno-ball stands are shut up tight. Most.

After spending much of my 2011 visit on a frustrated hunt for this frozen treat, I decided to dedicate 2012 to tracking down easier prey. And as will happen, the path of least resistance delivered me to not one but two sno-ball shops.

The first was Tee Eva's Famous Old-Fashioned Pralines and Pies, in the Garden District.

Eva Louis Perry grew up in rural Louisiana and learned to cook by hanging around the kitchen watching her mother, aunts, and grandmothers. Family recipes became the basis of her business when Eva moved to LA and made her name as a caterer specializing in Southern food. After a decade on the West Coast, Eva returned to New Orleans in the late 1980s and became well known for pies and pralines, which she sold from a basket, walking down the street or through office buildings (even City Hall!); once some cops pulled her over, lights flashing, just to see if she had any pies left.

Even after opening her own shop in 1989, Eva continued to hit the streets with her basket, seeing herself as part of a "proud tradition" of women entrepreneurs of color, generations of whom walked around New Orleans with their pralines, pies, and calas. Eva even won a few parts in locally-filmed shows and films by setting up shop outside casting calls.

About ten years ago Eva retired; in a video from the Southern Foodways Alliance, she discusses the business and her legacy. She handed the business and the archive of family recipes over to her granddaughter, who still runs Tee-Eva's today. Specialties include pralines, mini pralines, sweet potato pie, pecan pie, sweet potato pecan pie, and cream cheese pecan pie; hand pies are $2 and larger pies made to order.

I wasn't aware of any of this backstory when I walked by. What drew me in was the eye-catching sign announcing "snowballs year-round!!". Perusing the list of flavors, I was attracted to "cake batter"; I asked the woman behind the counter what it tastes like.

"Like cake batter," she replied.

Sold.

She switched on her ice machine and shaved off a serving of fine, dry snow, then poured on the syrup. As she passed me the cup I was momentarily distressed by memories of "yellow snow" jokes, but then the reassuring perfume washed over me: vanilla, butter, and--power of suggestion?--something creamy and rich and deliciously dangerous, like raw egg yolks.

Tee-Eva's World Famous Pies and Pralines
5201 Magazine St
New Orleans, LA
504/899-8350

My second sno-ball came from the same stall where I finally tracked one down last year, Mother Nature's Cupboard in the French Market. In this video, proprietor Gene lets us in on all the secrets of a genuine New Orleans sno-ball, from layering the cup, to testing for quality, to what's really in "Tiger's Blood" syrup:



Mother Nature's Cupboard
1008 N Peters St
French Market Farmer's Market
New Orleans, LA

Tofu Pudding Pops

Okay, so let's say you buy too much fresh tofu pudding to eat before it turns into a seething vat of evil. What to do? Hmm...

PUDDING POPS!

Admittedly, they won't make Bill Cosby turn vegan, but tofu pudding pops are pretty good. Matcha above, and vanilla below.

Mango Chile Paletas

Mango Chile Paletas

It was meant to be: the day after I spotted a recipe for Mexican-style mango chile paletas in my public library copy of Saveur magazine, I noticed mangoes on sale at the grocery store. These easy-to-make pops are a perfect match for Seattle's dim and blustery spring, with the mango standing in for sunshine and enough red chili to chase off the chill.

Meltdown Pops

Meltdown

Pops, $3/each

On our very last night in New Orleans, up popped a Groupon for a French Quarter sweet treat that I had totally overlooked: Meltdown, an artisan ice pop store just a block from the French Market.

Meltdown makes what might be called "popsicles" (were that word not trademarked by Unilever) but are more properly known as paletas. These frozen treats originated in Mexico and take their name from the wooden stick, or palo, which forms their handle. The hallmarks of a true paleta are fresh, natural ingredients, creative flavor combinations, and impeccable texture, whether icy or creamy.

Meltdown is one of the youngest members of a loosely affiliated extended family of paleterias. Their ancestral hometown is Tocumbo in central Mexico's Michoacán state, where confectioners have long used local produce to create delicious frozen pops. In 1941 Agustin Andrade left Tocumbo to launch Mexico City's first paleteria, La Michoacána. He was so successful that a Tocumbo relative soon arrived to start a second store. Many more paleta entrepreneurs followed, setting up shop wherever they could find sufficient demand; they trained their sons or apprentices, who in turn extended the paleta network. According to a recent story in Saveur magazine, there are now more than 15,000 paleterias in Mexico and the US.

Among those ranks is Las Paletas, a Nashville, Tennessee paleteria that was one of the first to be owned by women. Sisters Norma and Irma Paz grew up in Guadalajara and moved to the US as adults. Struck by the absence of their beloved paletas, they returned to Mexico to learn the ropes, then started Las Paletas. Along the way to becoming a high-profile success, the store helped expand Nashville's palate, revitalize a formerly grim neighborhood, and inspire a new generation of paleta makers.

Among these is Meltdown's Michelle Weaver. After being initiated into the art in Nashville, she spent several years selling her wares from a Good Humor truck in LA, before moving again to New Orleans. She initially sold at markets and from another truck, but demand allowed her to open a small storefront last year. It houses her production kitchen, a small retail counter, and a couple of coolers holding a cache of fresh pops.

On our last morning in town, I left my bags in the hotel coat check and headed to Meltdown first thing. The shop wasn't open yet so I had time to study the chalkboard list of the day's flavors:

strawberry hibiscus

pineapple cilantro

blood orange

lavender lemon

grapefruit poppyseed

salted caramel

Vietnamese coffee

saffron rosewater

chocolate lavender

black sesame seed

The saffron rosewater was a lovely pale peach color--like a faintly embarrassed vanilla--and threaded with a generous amount of the bright orange spice. I gulped it down while hustling back to the hotel for the airport taxi and found that the floral sweetness helped to temper my sadness over leaving New Orleans. I might even have tried to run back for a second pop, but I didn't want to risk having a paleta headache on the plane.

Meltdown

508 Dumaine

New Orleans, LA

504/301-0905

Sno-balls

Sno-ball
Mother Nature's Cupboard, $3

Back when I was still a pre-schooler, Kentucky experienced a couple of really tough winters. I'm sure it was a terrible and challenging time for most adults, but I remember it fondly: I loved the rapier-long icicles hanging from the eaves, the sledding marathons, and especially a homemade treat that my mother called "snow cream." She and I would bundle up and venture out onto the porch to heap a mixing bowl high with all the fresh snow it would hold. Once back in the kitchen, we would stir it together with milk, sugar, and vanilla extract, then race to eat the sweet slush before it melted.

It turns out that my mother wasn't the first to think along these lines. Back in ancient times, people living in Sicily used to bring snow down from Mt. Etna, store it in caves and crevasses until summer arrived, then enjoy it drizzled with wine or flavored syrups. Later generations of Sicilians would master the arts of gelato, sorbet, and granita, and spread their specialties around the world--and one Sicilian-American would re-introduce us to the delights of eating snow.

In 1936, a New Orleans grocer of Sicilian descent named George J. Ortolano designed and built a machine that transformed blocks of ice into edible snow--and not rough, crunchy crystals, but soft, fluffy powder. With wife Josie cooking up creatively flavored creams and syrups, Ortolano began selling the refreshing concoctions at his grocery store. Word soon spread, and Ortolano was deluged with requests for the snow-making machine. His industrial model, the Snow-Wizard, spread across the South and became a staple of summertime snack stands.

I arrived in New Orleans hungry for a sno-ball and totally ignorant of how hard it would be to find one. I came prepared with the names of two popular stands, Hansen's Sno-Blitz and Plum Street Sno-balls, both of which have been around since the the 1940's. I called ahead to check hours and got endless ringing at one and a "closed for the season" recording at the other. Sno-ball season, it turns out, runs from March through October. February is not even on the calendar--however hot and sunny it may be. Nevertheless, I kept my hopes up and my eyes peeled; it seemed like I couldn't go three blocks without being taunted by shuttered sno-ball shacks and their tattered lists of unimaginably intriguing flavors: Orchid Cream, Nectar, Tiger's Blood, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle...

Just when I was starting to think I had a snowball's chance of finding an open sno-ball stand, I spotted Mother Nature's Cupboard in the French Quarter's French Market. Although Mother Nature's is primarily a farm stand, they augment their produce sales with tourist-friendly snacks and drinks, and the proprietor was more than happy to make me my first-ever sno-ball.

He took an enormous ice block from the freezer and placed it in the belly of the squat, blocky "Southern Snow" machine (a Snow-Wizard competitor), which started to chug when he flipped the switch. The shavings sprayed out a chute in the side, and to demonstrate what separates a sno-ball from a crushed ice "snow" cone, he tossed a handful into to the air, where the glittering snow cloud hung briefly before the flakes drifted to the ground: "You can say you saw it snowing in the French Market!" After filling the cup with snow, he packed it down and poured on a swig of my chosen syrup, almond-based "Wedding Cake" (below, right). He repeated the layering process until the cup would hold no more, ensuring the the last bite would be as soft and sweet as the first. A swirl of condensed milk was the finishing touch.

Not every treat I spend days searching for lives up to the anticipation, but the sno-ball was even better than I had hoped, even better that the snow cream of my memories.

Mother Nature's Cupboard
1008 N Peters St
French Market Farmer's Market
New Orleans, LA

Cherry Hibiscus Ice

Cherry Hibiscus Ice

Mazama Community Market, $1.25

Located in northeastern Washington's isolated Methow Valley, the town of Mazama boasts a population of 230--most of whom turn out for the Wednesday evening Community Market. As you might expect from an area that's equally attuned to the needs of hikers, skiers, wine connoisseurs, and libertarians, Mazama's residents are sporty, colorful, creative, and into having a good time.

While enjoying acoustic covers of Dylan and Grateful Dead songs and keeping one eye on the vegetable sculpture contest (for kids only, sigh), we wandered around the ring of stalls to check out all the goods on offer. Apparently, there are no limits on who can open a stall or on what they can sell. There were jars of honey and slices of pizza, t-shirts and crafts, a couple of mini yard sales, several people selling surplus produce from their gardens, girls offering custom bracelets, and a kid at an actual Kool-Aid stand unexpectedly selling pudding. Dogs wandered freely, sometimes chewing on hunks of cauliflower discarded by the vegetable sculptors.

One stall had a pretty impressive wooden sign advertising chicha tea, which I'd never heard of. The seller explained how she got into chicha and how it's really great and delicious, then admitted that she'd forgotten her tea at home. Instead, she had tubs of homemade fruit ices. I had the cherry hibiscus, which was lovely, with the sweetness of a jamaica soda and chunks of sour cherry.

Rainier Cherries

Rainier Cherries

Nope, they're not in season yet--despite our recent premature spring weather. But a few days into my elimination diet, this morning I found myself desperately searching the kitchen for anything sugar-free but vaguely candylike. And then I remembered: towards the end of cherry season last year, Rainiers got so cheap that I bought several pounds and stashed a couple of tubs in the freezer. Huzzah!

Eight months in hibernation doesn't amount to beauty sleep for cherries (hence the lack of an up-to-date picture), but they tasted better than they looked, and gave me the little hit of sweetness I was craving.

Dried Apricotsicles

On my trip to Japan last year, I spent quite a lot of time shopping for budget souvenirs at 100-yen ($1) shops.  Among my haul were four individual popsicle molds made of (packable) silicon rubber.  I have them in pretty much constant rotation right now and every time I pop out a perfectly formed sicle it occurs to me that good design is a real pleasure.  The popsicles are short and fat, but not overly large; each mold has a strap that wraps over the top to hold the stick in place and little feet that keep it stable in the freezer.  

The fact that the molds are separate instead of conjoined encourages experimentation; I can make one or two on a whim, or fill one mold with ingredients that would make a unappetizing mess should they happen to slop over into another.  

My first attempt at making apricot sauce for anzu kori    If it seems odd to be using dried apricots at a time of year when fresh ones are widely available, consider that drying intesifies the fruit's natural sugars. If, like me, you are taking a break from sugar, this is one of those magical treats that is satisfyingly sweet without the help of any added

Two of the popsicles in the group shot below are made from my first attempt at apricot syrup for anzu kori.  I used unsulphured dried apricots and a recipe for stewed fruit compote.  Although I omitted the most overtly Christmasy spices, I've really been enjoying spicy foods this summer, so I decided to throw in a little cinnamon and both powdered and grated fresh ginger.  While a lot of homemade popsicles come out hard and icy, thanks to the fruit pulp these are tender and velvety.  

1/2 lb dried apricots

3 c water

1/4-1/3 c sugar (optional--the fruit is pretty sweet on its own)

1 Tbs mixed spices (eg ginger, cinnamon)

1 Tbs lemon juice

Rinse the apricots in cold water and let them soak for 2-3 hours in a saucepan covered in 3 cups clean, cold water.  Don't drain!  Bring the apricots and water to a boil and lower the heat.  Cover and simmer gently until tender (20-25 min).  The apricots should be falling apart, but mash them a little; the texture should be like a chunky applesauce.  Stir in sugar (if using) and quickly take off the heat.  Stir in spices and lemon juice.  Cool to room temperature.  Fill popsicle molds and freeze 4-6 hours.  Refrigerate the remainder of the fruit. 

Anzu Kori

Today's sweet is brought to you by poor planning and wishful thinking. 

While teaching English in Japan in 2000 I read about Ki no Zen, a kanmi dokoro (old-fashioned parlor serving tea and sweets) located near Iidabashi station at the the bottom of the Kagurazaka slope, one of Tokyo's historic geisha districts. Of the countless versions of kakigori (shaved ice with various sweet toppings) that make Japanese summers bearable, Ki no Zen specializes in anzu kori, ice topped with sweet-tart apricot syrup. The article described Ki no Zen's anzu kori as so popular that on hot afternoons a telltale line of waiting OLs (young "office ladies") spills out the unremarkable front door and into the street.

I longed to join them, but for some reason (possibly my days off coincided with Ki no Zen's?) I never made it. When I went back to Tokyo last summer Ki no Zen was near the top of my list of spots to visit. But there were so many distractions; I put it off a little longer, a little longer, until finally I made it there too late. It was the end of September and still sweltering, but Ki no Zen's menu is based on the calendar rather than the thermometer, and they had long since served the last anzu kori of the year.

As Seattle began to heat up earlier this month, my thoughts returned to anzu kori and I resolved to try making my own version based on the descriptions I'd read.  One article mentioned dried apricots (which seemed a little odd given that summer is the season for fresh ones) so I started with a modified stewed fruit recipe.  The result was tasty but not at all what I had in mind--dark brown, nearly opaque, and totally lacking the tang of fresh apricots:  essentially, highbrow baby food.

So back to fresh apricots, then.  While I don't in any way claim that it's in the same ballpark as Ki no Zen's, my homemade anzu kori was simple, pleasant to look at, and quite refreshing.  I added only a touch of sweetness and a squirt of lemon juice to underline the apricots' natural tartness and protect their glowing color.  

Freestyle Anzu Kori

1 lb fresh, just-ripe apricots

3/4 c water

2 tsp lemon juice

1-3 Tbs honey

shaved ice

Dice the apricots and remove the pits.  Bring the apricots and water to boil in a small saucepan over medium heat.  Reduce the heat and simmer until the apricots are soft and their skins are totally indistinguishable from the pulp (15-20 min).  Remove from heat.  Mash the apricots further with a fork or potato masher; leave some small chunks for texture.  Stir in lemon juice and honey to taste.  Chill and serve over bowls of unsweetened shaved ice.  

(As I mentioned in Montezuma's Reward, I'm currently sans food processor, so for my shaved ice I froze 2 Tbs of vodka in 2 1/2 cups of water, then used a fork to grate the soft-set ice.)

Montezuma's Reward

Montezuma's Reward

Summer has finally come to Seattle and I am waiting for my internal thermostat to adjust whilst lying inert and working my way through a stack of library books on food and sweets. Although I've read about Montezuma's passion for chocolate many times, the notion of spiced chocolate served on fresh snow delivered from the mountains by runners resonated anew today, as I sat sweating and looking at the icy caps on the far-off Olympic range.

In keeping with my recent slackadaisical efforts, this is another treat that couldn't be any easier. I picked up the original recipe for "mocha ice" ages ago and have never made it the same way twice. I've gradually reduced the amount of sugar called for (sometime I'll also try it with agave or maple syrup), and I use whatever herbs or spices I have on hand. With Montezuma in mind I went with chipotle and cinnamon this time, along with a splash of tequila. While the tablespoon of booze contributes very little in the way of flavor (or buzz) it makes my life a lot easier, since I don't currently own either a blender or a food processor. The alcohol keeps the ice from freezing completely hard, enabling me to grate the block into chocolatey snow using nothing more than a fork and a little effort.

2 1/2 c water

1/2 c brown sugar

1/2 c table sugar

1/3 c cocoa powder

1/4 tsp salt

up to 1 tsp combined dry spices (eg cinnamon, cardamon, chile powder, chipotle, ginger)

1-2 Tbs strong coffee or espresso

1 tsp vanilla

1-2 Tbs alcohol (eg whiskey, tequila, vodka)

Bring the water, sugar, cocoa, and spices to a low boil. Stirring frequently, let the mixture continue to bubble for 5 minutes over medium heat. Remove from heat and allow to cool to room temperature. Stir in the coffee, vanilla, and alcohol. Transfer to the freezer in an appropriate container (with room for the liquid to expand). When the ice more or less solidifies rake it with a fork to make soft, fluffy granita-style slush. Eat immediately with spoons or allow to thaw to a slurpable consistency. Also good topped with a tiny amount of heavy cream or half-and-half.

Kulfi

Kulfi/Kulfee/Qulfi
$2.95 / serving

After a delicious dinner of Nepali and Tibetan dishes at Shoreline's Everest Kitchen, the perfect tonic for overtaxed tastebuds has to be kulfi, the famed frozen treat found all over south Asia.

Kulfi is typically made from three dairy products (hey, if one is good...): evaporated milk, condensed milk, and cream. The mixture is boiled with sugar and thickened with corn starch. Flavorings can include cardamon, saffron, fruit, rose petals, and various nuts. Everest Kitchen's house-made kulfi is loaded with cashews and pistachios, tinged with cardamon, and topped with a sprinkling of dried coconut.

Unlike churned ice cream, kulfi is frozen solid, often in small servings. Once frozen, kulfi is dense enough to fight off all but the most determined spoons; ours came to the table sliced into four sections, but still so unyielding I had visions of accidentally catapulting a chunk across the room. But after a few minutes of patience and heavy breathing, the kulfi relaxed into edibility. It was just sweet enough, richly flavored and with a creamy/chewy texture that seemed to owe more to the nuts than the dairy.

The Everest Kitchen, 14561 Bothell Way NE
Shoreline, WA 98155
206/440-0321
www.theeverestkitchen.com

Nakamise-Dori Treats

For several centuries the street leading to the Asakusa Sensoji temple has been lined with shops and crammed with tourists. Nakamise-dori demands a high level of coordination; you have to be able to throw elbows with one arm and stuff your face with the other. These are just a few of the treats on offer.



















Various fruits (in this case a pickled plum) swirled in gooey candy and displayed on a block of ice.



















Shaved ice and summer kimono.



















Softcream.



















Yokan.



















Senbei, hot off the grill.



















Stall selling pre-packaged boxes of souvenir sweets.



















Age-manju: deep-fried wheat-flour bun filled with bean paste and flavored with matcha tea powder.

Uji Kintoki

Day twenty-five: Uji Kintoki
Kyu-Iwasaki-Tei teahouse, ¥600

The Kyu-Iwasaki-Tei house near Ueno Park is an extravagant cultural mash-up built for a founder of Mitsubishi financial group during the Meiji period. Architect Josiah Condor was born in London in 1852, but lived in Japan from 1877 until his death in 1920. Somewhere he along the way he absorbed the influence of enough other cultures for Persian, Tuscan, Jacobean, and Pennsylvania Dutch elements to be readily identifiable in the house's facade and interiors.

The complex once comprised some 20 buildings on nearly 50000m2, but although the property was designated as a National Cultural Asset in 1952, both the building and the grounds have been ruthlessly pruned. Only three of the original buildings still stand: a detached "Swiss Gothic Cottage" housing the billiards room, the western-style mansion were guests were once received, and butted up against it, a large Japanese-style house where the original family actually lived.

Today a large part of the Japanese house has been given over to a tourist-friendly tearoom (in sparsely-furnished Japanese houses this kind of coversion is a mere matter of giving the tatami mats a good sweep and setting out low tables and cushions). From the limited menu I chose Uji Kintoki, an pile of shaved ice topped with green tea syrup, a dollop of sweetened red beans, and a clutch of white dango dumplings, a perfect energy-booster on a sweltering day.

I placed my order at the register and headed for one of the empty tables at the back when a woman sitting at the prime front table (maximum breeze!) waved me over and insisted that I join her and her husband. He spoke a little English and we all had a grand time muddling through a conversation about my travel plans and the merits of Japanese sweets.

After years of studying the subtleties of ethnographic interviewing, my research technique has devolved to a single question: "So, what is your number-one favorite sweet?"  This lovely even drew me a little sketch of hers, which, sadly, is only available for a few days in early spring.