sake tasting

A lesson on how to drink Sake (Nihonshu)

Last night, my host family brought me along to an organised sake tasting tour. The bus arrived at 5.20 (early! complained my host mother). Everyone assembled on the drive - around twelve of us in total - awkwardly greeting each other. In the bus, we all sat separately. The only conversation being how beautiful and red the sunset was - impressively strung out for fifteen minutes. We were bussed to a hotel in the now-deserted Hirafu ski resort - the place lit up by construction warning lights; workers busy preparing the roads for the winter season.

Trying to remember which ones were which was a struggle.... especially towards the end of the evening

The event was set up in the usual dining-at-a-wedding manner, with each group sitting around a themed table (we were 'plum'). People wore suits and dresses and greeted each other, waiting for the first kanpai so they could all get down to the business of drinking sake.

As is the norm for every event and/or gathering in Japan, there were many introductory speeches (紹介). The mike passed from one unknown besuited man to the next. Then the three Sake producers, wearing Matsuri-style jackets with the name of their company emblazoned on the hem, talked to us about their offerings. The names passed me by, I'm afraid. All I understood is that the one in the middle was from Hokkaido - the home team - and, of course, the best of the selection.

Then the raffle for the Kanpai was called - who was going to say the toast? I looked down at my seat number (32) and was just explaining to my Mrs T that if they called my number out then she would have to...

"32!"

I can't describe to what extent this was the worst possible scenario for me. As soon as I'm facing people, all normal language - whether Japanese or English - leaves my head. Hearing me speak in public is like watching a chihuahua running a marathon: so painful you can't bear to look. In fact, I have memories of seeing various loved-ones in the audience with their head in their hands, desperately hoping I can manage to string together a coherent sentence.

In any case, a room full of completely sober lion club members and retired managers and their wives were waiting for a good long-winded, mumbling Japanese speech with a couple of old-man jokes. Instead, they got the nervous laughter of a foreign girl. "Kanpai!" I said. Then ran away.

I look a little worse for wear here - but I wasn't that bad I swear!

The rest of the evening, though, was really, incredibly fun. I knew it was going to be fun when, for the Kanpai, Yamagiwa San dashed up to get his second glass of Sake. It was barely six o'clock. People ate daintily (a squid; horseradish and egg; a bit of soba and mushrooms) and drank wildly. Although there were quite a few 'young tables' (i.e. not-retired people, or, as Yamagiwa-San referred to them once, 'children') our table was the most lively. Even the reserved, disciplined Sachiko-San in her black outfit and set hair had a row of sake cups lined up in front of her.

There were yet more raffles and, for some bizarre generous reason, everyone decided to give me their winnings as 'Omiyage' (souvenirs). I know have three boxes of chocolate, potato cakes and more furoshikis than I can count.

The sake itself was delicious, but the tastes were so different. Sweet and dry and fruity, just like wines. Some were dangerously drinkable, almost sweet liquors. And others were so hard and dry on the tongue it reminded me of Vodka (urgh).

I ended up talking (badly) to a retired Jewellery designer who worked with silver. She'd traveled to England many times, she explained, although the food wasn't much, was it? Fish and chips! Now and again she would slip into English. I don't generally mind slippages into English, of course, it being my native tongue. Language is like a baton of power, and while speaking Japanese the baton is always in the Japanese person's hands. But if she or he slips into their school-learnt English, then they're handing the baton to me. And for a while they're happy like that, chatting away in  English, but as soon as it comes to a whole conversation, they quickly realise they've made a terrible mistake, handing me the baton of power, and they want it back. So a few sentences later - after they've offered me as much English as they could manage - we're back with Japanese.

The lads

Everyone was exceedingly merry. But as it is with Mr T's Nomikais (drinking parties) generally, they are always very short. 6-8pm is the time we have to eat and drink; afterwards everyone goes their separate way. Even at 7.50pm I could tell Mr T was lagging. He'd said all he had to say to his drinking buddies. Most of them had relaxed into a quite booze snooze. Apart from Yamagiwa San who talked on without making any sense. Mr T's eyes were closing and he kept asking where the bus was. Time to go to bed, he seemed to be saying. Two hours with other people is more than enough!

The journey home was much warmer and more jovial than the way there, unsurprisingly. We had a cup of tea and a chocolate (I taught Mrs T the joy of dipping things into tea, and now she does it all the time) and Mr T duly fell asleep on the sofa.