“Do you want to come to a BBQ?”, my manager asked. “Me and my boyfriend will BBQ this Sunday, you should come!” she added
“Sure, I love BBQ'ing. Just tell me when and where. I'll be there.” I replied.
“Well it's a special kind of BBQ. We go to forest and looking for bamboo...then cut...”,she stopped short. Her English was not up to task to explain. Still, I was quite interested in this whole 'forest bamboo chopping thing' so I committed.
I heard her go on to explain some of the specifics to our bilingual speaker in the shoe factory (my place of work now for almost 1 year!). Of course, we have a bilingual sales representative, and she attempted to ask our Manager what was involved. After her explanation, the two made plans when and where to meet. The manager left, and I was with the bilingual speaker.
“So, what did she say? I didn't really catch that 'bamboo forest' part” I pried.
“Actually”, she pondered, “neither did I. But she did say wear old, dirty clothes and some type of hiking shoes. We have to hunt and chop bamboo.”
“Whhhatttt? She explained in two languages, and we still don't know what's happening?”
“I guess not, but I'm still going to go, and you should too”, she said.
“Of course I'll go, but let me ask you one thing and answer honestly” I looked over my shoulder, “are you going just because the boss invited you, or do you really want to go?” I semi-whispered.
“I truly and honestly want to go; because the boss invited me” she giggled and walked away.
I was left standing there knowing little more than bamboo, forest, chopping and BBQ. Hey I guess if there was beer involved, I would be happy.
Later on that day, I saw my manager as she was making her rounds.
“What time does the BBQ start?”, I asked.
“Uh, I'll pick you up at the station at 9:30 am”
“Oh, uh, really? That early, huh? Okay, I'll be there” I replied without much confidence.
Well, I must say my confusion was compounded. Not only was this BBQ already a mystery, but it started at 9:30 IN THE MORNING. ON A SUNDAY! I usually start working at noon, so I often set my alarm for 10:30 or 11:00, but NEVER 9:30! So early!? But, I was committed, and I had to see what it was all about. Plus, it involved home cooked Japanese food, so I would happily entertain a bit of mystery and fatigue. It wouldn't be the first time that I had no idea what I was doing or eating in this country.
So, Sunday morning rolls around and my alarm goes off at 9:00. I stumbled out of my futon, which can be very dangerous, and look in the mirror. 'what the hell am I doing right now?' I think as I gaze at my stubbly face and crusty eyes. 'oh yeah, I guess it's time to BBQ, just what I want for breakfast' I lament. I splash some cold water on my face, do my usual brand of morning exercise (which is known world wide as “Uri's 4 Minute Yoga”), pack my camera bag and head out the door.
In lieu of wearing dirty shoes like my boss said, I opt for the flip flops with the thought that I can just take them off and go barefoot if its really muddy or something. Yeah yeah yeah, I know what you're thinking: “what kind of dumb-ass idea is that?” Well, I tell you: when you're heading out the door at 9:20 on a Sunday morning to BBQ, you aren't thinking straight.
We meet up and drive around for a bit, getting supplies and other necessities. We pick up some vegetables, meat and shellfish to grill. We pick up some charcoal. We get some beer and soda, and then we head off into the forest. My manager's boyfriend is driving, and we are speeding off into the beauty that is Bosso. Chiba is a big peninsula, with lots of beautiful farmland and rolling hills. (It's like Florida without Nascar and retired Jews and alligators!) I was really taken by the beauty of the land, the blue sky and the fragrant smell of the rice paddies all around. My qualms about this adventure melted. I could just ride around in the car out in the country side all day. But of course that would not happen; we going to GRILL.
After about 30 minutes of driving we arrived at a huge house. Behind the house there was a mountain. The face of the mountain was covered in a dense bamboo forest. My superior instinct and skill told me this is where we were heading.
We unload the car, and make ready for our trek. My Manager's boyfriend takes one look at my flip-flops and shakes his head. He asks me in Japanese what size I wear. I answer: 28.5. Shoe size is difficult because not only am I using a foreign measuring scale, but I using this scale in a foreign language. So I was 95% sure I didn't answer correctly. But, he seemed happy with my reply and went off to fetch me some proper hiking shoes.
He returned with rain galoshes. Or wellingtons, or rubber rain boots, or whatever you call them. I was actually quite happy with this, because I would stay very clean. I was happy, until I put them on. They were just big enough to fit, and just small enough to be extremely painful. I clenched my teeth into a smile and said they were 'just fine' in Japanese. He gave me a high-five and scampered off to collect some more items.
Ten minutes later, we were off into the forest. My manager's boyfriend was wearing a type of basket backpack, and carrying two flat picks. I finally asked him what we were searching for, and he told me a word in Japanese. I took out my iphone and used the translator; 'Bamboo shoots', it informed me. Now I was starting to get an idea about what was going on.
We hike up the side of this mountain and find a little baby bamboo plant growing out of the thick pile of leaves and forest junk on the ground. It looks like a little carrot sticking half out of the dirt. My manager's boyfriend digs out around the base of the little guy and then chops it in half with the pick axe. He holds up the chopped end and smiles like a little kid. “Delicious!” he says to me in English as he throws the stubby vegetable into the backpack. The ladies 'ooh' and 'ahh'. He hands me a pick and points out into the forest.
I walk around for about 40 minutes before I find another baby bamboo. The forest is nearly vertical, so trekking is not easy. I take aim, and chop it out of the ground and throw it in the basket. After about 2 hours, we have around 10 bamboo shoots. We are all sweating like crazy from the stifling heat of the forest. My feet are about ready to break through the galvanized rubber boots. We decide that we have enough and head back to the house.
After changing my shoes, we all sit around and inspect our bounty over a beer. We have about 10-12 shoots of varying size. Some are about a foot, some around 4 inches. They do not look tasty. We get the grill going and my Manager's boyfriend shows us how to cook the shoots.
First you soak some newspaper, then wrap the shoots tightly, then place the little guys directly on the coals. Some of the paper packages got a little pat of butter inside, some didn't. We put our harvest on the coals and return the grate to the top of the grill. We cooked up some meat and mushrooms, ate some cucumbers soaked in ice water and fried some noodles yaki-soba style. I was really happy. We all sat around the grill with little plate of sauce in our left hand, and chopsticks in our right eating food directly from the grill. Everything was so fresh and tasty. The smell of the rice paddies all around us, the charcoal from the grill and the ever present mustiness of Japan was heavenly.
My manager's boyfriend even cooked up some mushrooms that he grew in a little hut behind the house. They were huge and tasted amazing. The flavor was something like that of the way an old book smells. But I swear these mushrooms imparted the knowledge of books as well. Eating one of these massive fresh shitakes was like tasting Anna Karenina, or The Sun also Rises, neither of which I need to read now. You haven't truly read a book until you've tasted it in the form of a mushroom. (For those of you who don't know, Japan was nicknamed “The land of mushrooms” by yours truly. Because of all the moisture here, there are at least 5 billion different kind of edible mushrooms at every supermarket. If you like mushrooms, Japan is heaven.)
We ran out of stuff to cook on the grill so we decided to eat our bamboo shoots. We took off the grill grate and got them out of the coals using tongs. As we unwrapped them a nice aroma wafted from the burnt newspaper. It smelled like a grilled cucumber, if you can imagine that. We took off the brown outer wrapping, and were left with a little tan stalk-like thing. It looked a bit like an artichoke heart. They were all still covered in bits of burnt newspaper. Everybody in unison took a bite. We looked around at each other while chewing. They were all smiling and chomping away, remarking how tasty and crunchy it was. I was not impressed. All I could taste was the 'wonderful' flavor of burnt newspaper, dirt, and something like watery balsa wood. I took a few more bites, sampling the bigger and smaller sizes, and pieces with and without butter. I put down my plate. No more for me.
“Wasn't that delicious?”, my co-worker asked of the bamboo shoots.
“Yeah, today...today was delicious”, I reflected, sipping my beer. She looked at me sideways. I wanted more mushrooms.
A Mormon I met in Fukushima told me that “hunger is the best spice”. We were talking about how being hungry makes everything taste great. I thought this was a universal law of food and hunger and physics. I thought this until: I woke up early, foraged for my own food in a forest on the 2nd day of an already sweltering summer, built a fire and cooked my bounty. I would eat bamboo shoots to survive, but I don't think I would ever do it for pleasure again.
