Stream free On Demand
Destination Flavour: Japan
series • cooking
G
series • cooking
G
in Tokyo doesn't have an official closing time – it stops serving diners once it runs out of rice. This makes sense since it specialises in balls of onigiri, which are hand-shaped from the grains. The family behind this tiny 16-seat restaurant has moulded and plated this Japanese staple . It's currently run by , who used to be a professional flute player; he looks after the lunch service, while his mother rolls and wraps the rice with crisp local seaweed at night.
The history of onigiri is vast – spanning more than 2,000 years. Over time, it has fed Japanese train passengers, schoolkids and hungry customers searching out konbini (convenience store) shelves. Noble members of the Heian court , circa 794–1185; it was used to during the same era, too.
Onigiri Asakusa Yadoroku is the in Tokyo dedicated to this staple. Although it hasn't been around for millennia, it has a vibrant past: white rice was an opulent, flashy ingredient when Miura's grandmother first opened the store nearly 70 years ago. The name "yadoroku" is a reference to her husband and how , not accomplishing much. In an interview with the , Miura explains that the name essentially means "bastard at home" and he's keen to redefine this origin story. "I want to take over the meaning as well as the restaurant itself," .
Onigiri Asakusa Yadoroku in Tokyo. Source: Lee Tran Lam
I've wanted to visit this place for years – and during a recent trip to Japan, I'm determined to get there.
On my last night in Tokyo, I hurry to Onigiri Asakusa Yadoroku, aware that the restaurant closes once all the rice is gone. I arrive at 6:10pm and there's already a queue. The Austrian tourist at the front of the line explains that she's been waiting for half an hour. There are some Japanese people behind her, browsing the menu. I join the queue and hope the kitchen still has enough rice by the time I make it inside Onigiri Asakusa Yadoroku.
I join the queue and hope the kitchen still has enough rice by the time I make it inside.
An employee eventually approaches the line and wants to know how many people I'm dining with. I explain it's just me. Then he asks, "how many orders?"
And I'm really confused.
I say "one person" again, because I don't really understand his question.
And he clarifies, "no, how much onigiri do you want to order?"
And I have no idea, because I haven't seen the menu yet. I quickly ask for it and panic-scan it, registering which flavours I'd like to try.
The menu at Onigiri Asakusa Yadoroku. Source: Lee Tran Lam
He sounds surprised. He doesn't quite believe that I want to eat six onigiri.
I assure him I do – after all, the menu line-up is so different to what's usually available in Australia. Red pepper leaf simmered in soy sauce, for instance, and ginger pickled in miso paste are onigiri fillings I've never experienced before and I hope to sample them at Onigiri Asakusa Yadoroku.
He makes some notes and then returns with a chair that he places behind me in the queue. He sticks a sign on it: the restaurant has sold out of onigiri for the day, it says.
I've JUST made it!
I get seated by the counter, which is lined with a rainbow of ingredients: emerald-bright shiso, salmon roe sparkling like glassy orange beads.
I get seated by the counter, which is lined with a rainbow of ingredients: emerald-bright shiso, salmon roe sparkling like glassy orange beads, pink ginger shreds preserved in plum vinegar. They're stuffed into the rice and gift-wrapped with a sheet of crisp nori, before they're presented to diners on a woven platter.
I tell the waiter which flavours I want to try: yes to the shiitake mushrooms and seaweed boiled in soy sauce, I say, as well as the mountain burdock, salted shiso, red ginger in plum vinegar, soy-pickled vegetables and miso-preserved ginger.
I begin to understand the waiter's disbelief at my order by onigiri number two – I'm already full and have FOUR MORE rice balls to eat. Plus, when he asked me if I wanted miso soup, I instantly said yes – because you could try the broth with nameko mushrooms, which are hard to find in Australia. The restaurant also offers complimentary tea and generous tabs of takuan (pickled yellow radish), which are fanned onto the woven platter alongside the onigiri.
So I slow down and struggle through each successive rice ball, pushing my maxed-out stomach to its very limit. I'm glad I do, because the onigiri fillings are delicious: they're briny, tart and boldly flavoured. I taste the punch of soy-simmered ingredients and the pickled intensity of the ginger and shiso. Each rice ball is sculpted to order by Miura's mother, and snapped into place with an origami-like sheet of nori seaweed.
Although I only know a few words of phrasebook Japanese, we end up having a fun and extensive conversation. She asks if there's a lot of onigiri in Australia and I say "chotto" (a little bit), but there's "motto" (more) than there used to be. I scroll through the camera roll on my phone and show her examples, like the rice balls at various Sydney businesses: , and .
I finally got to dine at the oldest place in Tokyo serving these historic rice snacks.
By total coincidence, I happen to have bought a lot of onigiri souvenirs that day from in Shimokitazawa, and I end up pulling out example after example of merchandise decorated with various rice balls: tenugui fabric, stickers, tags and bags. She's delighted by my pro-onigiri enthusiasm and says, "arigatou gozaimasu" (thank you very much).
But the best souvenir of all is my memory of this visit; after all those years, I finally got to dine at the oldest place in Tokyo serving these historic rice snacks. (And yes, despite the waiter's understandable disbelief, I did eat all six onigiri – just as I promised.)
