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ОглавлениеCHAPTER 1
SAKE: JAPAN’S NATIONAL BEVERAGE
DEFINING SAKE
Japan’s earliest written records, dating back to the 8th century, used the imported Chinese kanji character 酒 for sake. In Japanese, the way this character is read can change. Alone, it’s simply “sake.” When added to the end of words it is read as -zake or -shu.
For 1,000 years, “sake” has referred to booze brewed from (usually) rice. The word “sake” is thought to be related to the Japanese word sakaeru, meaning “to flourish” or “to prosper.” The theory is that sake was sakae mizu, or “glorious water,” and that, over time, simply became “sake.” Another theory is that sa referred to the rice deity Sanaburi, while ke was an ancient reference to food.
In the late 16th century the Portuguese, the first Westerners in Japan, first documented the drink for the Western world, with an entry for saqe in a 1603 Japanese-Portuguese dictionary. The Dutch dubbed it sacki. In English, the drink has been incorrectly written “saki.” It’s also been written “saké” to differentiate it from the English word. Increasingly, it’s just “sake.”
By the late 19th century, when Japan was rapidly Westernizing, the word nihonshu (or nipponshu), which literally means “Japanese alcohol,” was used to distinguish the domestic drink from imported yoshu or “Western alcohol.” “Sake” typically means liquor in general. In spoken Japanese, nihonshu is commonly used for the drink that we call “sake,” thus avoiding any confusion. Abroad, “sake” or “Japanese sake” is fine. In 2015, the terms “nihonshu” and “Japanese sake” were given official geographical indications to separate products brewed in Japan from those not.
Sake is legally defined as being filtered from fermented rice, koji and water. Brewer’s alcohol is among the permitted additives; total additives cannot exceed 50 percent of the rice. The legal term seishu 清酒 (refined sake) is the modern term for filtered sake; this refers to all retail sake, even the cloudy stuff. Seishu is used in writing—on bottles, for example—but people don’t really use it in spoken Japanese.
This book uses the terms “sake” and, when necessary, “nihonshu” to refer to the drink.
The Difference between Sake, Wine and Beer
Throughout history, sake has been compared to both wine and beer, as well as with other varieties of alcohol. Westerners have always had a difficult time trying to characterize sake, because it truly is unlike anything in the West.
This late 18th century print is from a series pairing famous courtesans with sake brands.
This jug is Nagasaki’s traditional Hasami-ware porcelain from the mid-19th century.
In the late 16th century, the Portuguese defined sake as vinho, or “wine.” In Historia de Iapam (History of Japan), Jesuit missionary Luís Fróis recounted how sake was used in church services in Japan when wine was difficult to import. For the Portuguese, no doubt there were intrinsic similarities between wine and sake.
A line-up of Niigata sakes. The prefecture has over 80 breweries, the largest number of any prefecture in Japan. Niigata is the country’s third largest sake-producing region after Kyoto and Hyogo.
Wine associations continue to this day. The International Wine Challenge now has a sake category, and American wine critic Robert Parker reviews and scores sake. Wine terms, such as terroir, have been adopted into Japanese sake lingo (terowaaru). In some ways sake is like wine—both are enjoyed with food, both have a similar mouthfeel—though sake isn’t as acidic and dry as wine. But in how they are made, sake and wine could not be more different. In the winemaking process, grapes or other fruits are crushed to produce a naturally sugary juice. Yeast, whether wild or added, consumes the sugars and converts them to alcohol. Voilà: wine. Obviously, the quality of the grapes, as well as factors like maturation and the winemaker’s skill, determine the quality. Sake brewers often say that 80 percent of wine is the grapes, but 80 percent of sake is the brewer. (For whisky, between 70 and 80 percent of the flavor is from the cask influence during maturation.) Ranald MacDonald, one of the first Americans to arrive in Japan during the 1840s, compared sake to whisky, but this is inaccurate because sake is not distilled (a misapprehension that still persists). Since sake isn’t made from juice, it’s not a wine in the traditional sense. It is closer to beer in how it is made, which is probably why the US government now categorizes it as a beer. According to the 1984 National Minimum Drinking Age Act, “beer includes, but is not limited to, ale, lager, porter, stout, sake, and other similar fermented beverages brewed or produced from malt, wholly or in part from any substitute therefor.” (Confusingly, while the US government might tax sake like malted beer, as of writing, it requires sake to be labeled like wine under the Federal Alcohol Administration Act.) But there are key differences. Both are brewed, but unlike beer, sake isn’t made from malt. That hasn’t stopped comparisons to beer over the centuries. In the 17th-century travelogue The Travels of Monsieur de Thévenot, by French traveler Jean de Thévenot, sake was compared to beer. In the 18th century, the Encyclopedia Britannica defined sakki as “rice beer,” but added that it was “clear as wine and of an agreeable taste.” Beer is made from barley grain that is malted, a process in which the grains are encouraged to germinate so that the starches create enzymes. The malted barley is milled then heated in hot water, breaking down the enzymes into a sugary liquid called wort. Next, yeast is added, after which fermentation occurs, and beer is brewed.
This special beer is made with German hops, imported malted barley and local, top-grade Yamada Nishiki rice.
Completely different steps, however, must be taken to make sake (see pages 41–67). Rice is starchy, but it needs the help of mold—and humans—in order to be converted into alcohol. Sweet mold-covered rice called koji is made with rice and koji-kin, the Aspergillus oryzae fungus. While koji is often translated as “malt” or “malted rice,” this is not accurate. Malt, as defined by Merriam-Webster, is “grain (such as barley) softened by steeping in water, allowed to germinate, and used especially in brewing and distilling.” Koji is rice that’s covered with microorganisms (see page 95). It is slightly sweet; with the addition of yeast, those sugars are converted into alcohol. Unlike beer brewing, which is a series of separate steps, much of sake making happens all at once. In the fermentation process unique to sake, which is called “multiple parallel fermentation,” production of sugars and alcohol occurs in tandem. The resulting brew is utterly unlike beer: sake isn’t malty, bitter or frothy.
Even though the comparisons have existed for centuries and continue today, sake is not rice wine (nor is it related to any distilled drink like whisky). It’s not rice beer, either. Sake is sake. There is nothing else like it.
The Scientist Who Made Barley Sake
The German bacteriologist Oskar Korschelt thought he could use his beer-brewing expertise to improve upon the centuries-old sake-making process. He arrived in Japan in 1876 and took up a teaching post at Tokyo University Medical School. But he did other work, from soil analysis to pottery making.
Korschelt felt the sake-making process took too long and should take place year-round. His answer was to ditch the rice. In 1878, he began expressing his desire to make sake from barley. In Japan there exists a small tradition of making a fermented barley drink with koji. According to the 1898 book Seisanfushi (A record of the western Sanuki realm), drinks were made from barley in modern-day Kagawa Prefecture on the island of Shikoku.
Korschelt believed using barley would be cheaper and faster than rice, reasoning that it would produce the necessary starch to make sake while omitting the complex koji-making process and the need for multiple-step brewing. In 1879, he did two trials: one batch with rice and barley and another batch with barley only. Both reportedly had tasty results, though the barley-only brew sounds like, well, beer. In his report, Korschelt declared that the experiment was “a total success,” adding that he now had proof he could make sake from barley. “The smell of the liquor is refreshing and surpasses rice sake,” he added.
Although barley sake never took off, Korschelt did leave a lasting mark on the sake industry. To combat the persistent problem of batches going to rot, he suggested that brewers add salicylic acid (a compound that is now used to fight pimples and dandruff, but back then was a beer preservative) to their sake. His advice sparked the increased use of additives in sake that were thought to be cutting-edge chemistry. But sake laced with salicylic acid was mildly poisonous, and by 1969, all brewers banned it. (Gekkeikan, the Kyoto sake-making giant, had already stopped using salicylic acid by the mid-1910s.)
In 1878, Oskar Korschelt learned that sake brewers had been using pasteurization techniques centuries before Louis Pasteur was even born.
This is a honnidaru-style cask, traditionally covered in a straw matting emblazoned with the sake brand. Here, it reads Taketsuru (see next page).
SAKE TO WHISKY: THE TAKETSURU NAME
“This is difficult to talk about, but it’s something I should say,” says Toshio Taketsuru, taking a sip of green tea. “Initially, I didn’t want to take over this brewery.”
Toshio Taketsuru is the 14th president of Taketsuru Shuzo in Hiroshima, a brewery known for its full-bodied sake. The family name is also known because Masataka Taketsuru was the father of Japanese whisky and the founder of the Nikka Whisky Distilling Company. Toshio speaks in a deep, clear voice, and shares the same strong jawline of his whisky-making ancestor.
Outside the brewery are posters of the famed whisky maker. A statue of Masataka and his Scotland-born wife, Rita, stands up the street. “Masataka didn’t grow up in this house,” explains Toshio. “His family home was about five minutes away, and his father Keijiro came here to brew sake when we needed help. That’s probably how Masataka got interested in making alchohol.” That, in turn, got him interested in whisky.
Toshio wasn’t as keen to make liquor. The pressure of taking over the family brewery was daunting.
“My son is two now,” he says. “He might want to be a policeman, a carpenter or a pro baseball player. But … he’s a Taketsuru. Everyone in this town knows that. I started to gradually hate that expectation. I didn’t want to be involved in the brewery at all.”
After high school, Taketsuru won admission to prestigious Osaka University, where his father, Hisao, and Masataka before him had studied booze making. “I told my dad I got into Osaka University,” says Toshio. “I didn’t tell him it was to study physics. He found out during enrollment, and was a bit shocked.” It seemed the brewery would not continue, which was especially sad considering the lengths his ancestors had taken to keep it going.
“My grandfather, Kyousuke Taketsuru, was killed in the atomic bombing of Hiroshima,” Toshio says. “He had a bad leg, so he hadn’t been able to join the military. Plus, he was running a sake brewery, and the troops needed sake to drink, so that was part of the war effort.” With the entire country weary and war-torn, Kyousuke felt he had to do something more; he couldn’t just watch from the sidelines. “He went to Hiroshima to help put out fires,” Toshio says of the grandfather he never met. He pauses, taking another sip of tea. “My grandfather didn’t have to be in Hiroshima city, because he was handicapped and he was making sake,” says Toshio. “But he went anyway.” Kyousuke’s wife was left with a four-year-old son, Hisao, and a sake brewery. The Taketsuru family did their best to make it through those difficult postwar years until Hisao was old enough to take the reins. There was no question whether or not he would run the brewery.
In the postwar era, multinational Japanese companies dominated the globe. Working in a brewery seemed old fashioned. “My father was resigned to the brewery not continuing.” But as graduation approached, the younger Taketsuru started mulling over his career. “I really started thinking about the family business,” he says. “I didn’t have a burning passion for physics. I was just running away from expectations. I thought, was it worth casually ending a sake brewery that had existed for 260 years?” Toshio Taketsuru made up his mind. He was coming home.
“These breweries are passed down through the generations, but the youth are asked to make life-defining decisions before they’ve even drunk sake,” Taketsuru says. “When you’re 20, you still don’t have a developed palate, and you’re asked to devote your life to something you don’t quite understand.”
Taketsuru’s young son scampers into the room. He’s wearing a Star Wars T-shirt. I tell him that my youngest son loves Star Wars too. The boy smiles and darts out of the room. “Kids have their own lives and things they want to do,” Taketsuru says. “And I guess we can always have more children.”
Toshio Taketsuru at his family’s brewery.
Taketsuru Shuzo uses both wooden tubs and metal tanks for brewing.
Statues of Masataka Taketsuru and his wife Rita stand down the street from the Taketsuru brewery.
Taketsuru Shuzo is closed to the public, but it’s not uncommon for sake and whisky fans to make a pilgrimage just to take a snapshot of the brewery’s exterior.
In 1987, the Shinkame Brewery was the first in Japan to switch all of its sakes to junmai-shu. Since then, the brewery has spearheaded the junmai-only movement among sake breweries. See page 243 for tasting note.
TYPES OF SAKE
Sake comes in several major and niche types. The various categories are distinguished by the way they are made or their ingredients, and not by the rice variety used or the region.
Pure Rice-Only Sake
Junmai-shu 純米酒: Literally “pure-rice sake,” junmai is made from rice, koji, yeast and water. It doesn’t have added alcohol or a minimum polishing ratio. The minimum polishing ratio of 70 percent (meaning 30 percent of the grain was milled or polished away) was abolished in 2003. Junmai-shu is often noted for being full bodied and having robust, even earthy flavors. Originally all sake was junmai-shu.
“Alcohol-Added” Sake
In Japanese, alcohol-added sake is called aruten, which is short for arukooru tenka, literally meaning “alcohol added.” The majority of Japanese sake made is aruten, and typically falls into one of the two following categories:
Futsu-shu 普通酒: Literally “regular sake,” this everyday drink is about 60 percent of Japan’s sake market. Futsu-shu is made from table rice, with added organic acids, amino acids, sugar and generous amounts of brewer’s alcohol. What futsu-shu lacks in depth, it makes up for with easy, no-nonsense drinkability. There are exceptions: Japan’s National Tax Agency can designate a junmai-shu as futsu-shu if it’s made from low-grade rice, even if it doesn’t have added alcohol. Moreover, if the sake is made with less than 15 percent koji, it will be categorized as futsu-shu.
Honjozo-shu 本醸造酒: Literally meaning “true brewed sake,” honjozo is made from rice, koji, yeast, water and a limited percentage of high-proof alcohol which is added at the tail end of the fermentation process. The rice used in honjozo-shu must have a polishing ratio of at least 70 percent, meaning that 30 percent of the grain is milled or polished away. The added alcohol helps retain aromas, as scents easily glom onto ethanol, and it also results in a brew that is lighter, milder and easier to drink. The added alcohol also helps fortify and preserve the sake during storage.
Well-Polished Sake
During the 20th century, better milling machines meant lower polishing ratios, which made super-premium sake possible.
Ginjo-shu 吟醸酒: At least 40 percent of the rice must be polished, leaving 60 percent of the grain. Ginjo sake is made from rice, koji, yeast, water and brewer’s alcohol unless it’s junmai ginjo-shu, which doesn’t have added booze. Ginjo sake is famous for its fruity or floral fragrances. For more on ginjo-shu, see pages 18–19.
Daiginjo-shu 大吟醸酒: Dai means “great” or “big,” and Daiginjo is the apex of ginjo. At least 50 percent of each grain is polished, generally resulting in brews that are even more aromatic (and expensive!) than regular ginjo-shu. Daiginjo-shu is made from rice, koji, yeast, water and added brewer’s alcohol, unless it’s a junmai daiginjo-shu, in which case the alcohol content is purely from rice.
Note that daiginjo and ginjo are typically brewed at lower temperatures of around 54°F (12°C). This slows the fermentation to up to five weeks, resulting in a sake with low acidity and fruity aromas. Unless specified as junmai, ginjo and daiginjo sakes have added alcohol.
If you have any doubt about how much respect honjozo deserves, the country’s most famous toji Naohiko Noguchi is famed for his excellent honjozo brews. For the tasting note, see page 221.
Made with Kumamoto yeast, Kouro Ginjo is a classic ginjo sake. Check out the tasting note on page 219.
Not-So-Well-Polished Sake
Before the 1930s, when vertical rice polishing machines were invented, sake rice didn’t have the low polishing ratios achieved today. Milling removes fats and proteins that add flavor to rice. Through the 20th century until now, brewers have pushed polishing ratios lower and lower to isolate the starchy core of the grain known as the shinpaku (lit. “white heart”), which makes for easy koji production. The outer layers of the grain produce more body, but their compounds can be responsible for unwanted off-flavors. On the other hand, they also retain the taste of the rice, making for sake that is rich, heavy and acidic.
The tricky part of making sake with less-polished rice is pulling off the necessary balancing act. Typically, depending on the rice variety, breweries may decide they need to polish the rice more so that the koji spores can work their way into the grain. With softer rice, that might not be necessary, as spores can penetrate even if the grains have been barely polished. Then, the fermentation times and yeast varieties will further affect the final flavors. Just because a sake has a high polishing ratio doesn’t mean it’s low quality or inexpensive; likewise, a low polishing ratio doesn’t always ensure great sake. The barely polished brews are some of the most difficult sakes to make.
Tomita Shuzo, a 460-year-old brewery in Shiga famous for its Shichinoyari brand, has been conducting an interesting experiment. Its award-winning Junmai Wataribune 77% is made with local Wataribune rice, a relative of which was crossbred to make Yamada Nishiki, the top sake rice. Wataribune has been grown in Shiga for over 100 years, but by the 1960s, when Japan’s population was growing rapidly, low-yielding rice like Wataribune was replaced by new easier-to-grow high-yielding varieties, like Koshihikari, Japan’s favorite table rice. “Shiga-grown Wataribune has a large, starchy core, but it’s not clearly defined like Yamada Nishiki,” says Yasunobu Tomita, the brewery’s 15th-generation owner. “Because of that, it’s easy to impart the distinctive character of the rice to the sake.”
Tomita Shuzo, which uses a handful of rice varieties, began brewing with Wataribune in 2008. It’s very soft and not an easy rice to use, apt to pick up more nuka (rice bran) during polishing compared to other rice varieties. Tomita must take extra care while washing to make sure all the clingy bran is gone, to make sure that no off-flavors will emerge during fermentation.
Located in Shiga Prefecture, Tomita Shuzo’s famous brand is Shichihonyari or “Seven Spearsmen,” after the seven heroic leaders in the Battle of Shizugatake, fought nearby in 1583. The brewery, however, is older than that legendary battle. It is located on the Hokkoku Kaido road, an important route frequented by merchants and samurai.
THE BIRTH OF PREMIUM GINJO AND DAIGINJO SAKE
Say “premium sake,” and immediately ginjo leaps to mind. The kanji for gin (吟) in “ginjo” is the same as that in ginjiru, meaning “to chant” or “to recite” as in a poem. However, the “gin” in “ginjo” is actually derived from the word ginmi (吟味), meaning “scrutinize.” For example, ginjo pioneer Kokuryu Sake Brewery in Fukui has long had the motto ginmi shite kamosu or “scrutinize and brew.” The character jo (醸) in “ginjo” is from jozo (醸造), or “brew.”
The word “ginjo” emerged in the late 1800s. Researcher Goro Kishi, who laid the foundation for the quick fermentation starter known as sokujo-moto, first mentioned the term “ginjo” in print with his 1894 book Shuzou no tamoshibi (The lamp of sake brewing). By the end of the century, several dozen breweries were using the “ginjo” designation to denote special competition brews that weren’t for public consumption, iron-branding ginjo on casks to indicate sake “brewed with care.” There were other terms, however, to convey excellence. According to antique expert Alan Scott Pate’s book Kanban: Traditional Shop Signs of Japan, words like gokinjo (superior quality) and daigokinjo (best quality) were also used in Meiji-period advertising to denote excellent sake.
However, that early ginjo sake was quite different from today’s ginjo, which is determined by a polishing ratio of at least 60 percent, which was first codified in 1975 within the sake industry. Later, the Japanese government legally standardized the ginjos in 1990 (along with official definitions for junmai and honjozo). This polishing ratio only became possible after the early 1930s, when high-tech vertical rice-milling machines were developed that could burnish away half the grain. World War II and the ensuing rice shortages, however, slammed the brakes on any further ginjo development. The war, fueled by booze taxes, led to the development and expansion of sake made with additives other than rice. Ginjo was all but forgotten.
During this time, when the emphasis was on quantity over quality, an important discovery was made that was paramount for future ginjo sake. In 1953, the yeast that later became known as association yeast No. 9 was isolated at the Kumamoto Prefecture Sake Research Center; the Brewing Society of Japan began selling the yeast in 1968. No. 9 made modern ginjo possible: its fermentation is robust at low temperatures, which results in a balanced brew with low acidity and signature fruity ginjo aromas of apples and bananas. No wonder the yeast and its derivatives are still widely used for ginjo.
Kokuryu Ginjo Icchorai is made from Gohyakumangoku rice that’s been polished to 55 percent. It’s a pleasant, easy-drinking ginjo with nice astringency, good complexity and subtle floral nuances. The name Kokuryu has become synonymous with ginjo.
According to a 2002 Japan Times article by sake writer John Gauntner, a small Chiba brewery released a ginjo-marketed sake in 1947 under the Fusa Masamune brand. The brewery, Ishino Shoten, isn’t currently operational and phone calls for confirmation went unanswered. “We don’t really know who released the first ginjo to the general public,” says author Jiro Shinoda, Japan’s leading expert on ginjo-shu. In 1958, Hiroshima brewery Kamotsuru released Tokusei [special quality] Gold Kamotsuru labeled with the word daiginzo (大吟造), which means “daigin made,” as the term daiginjo wasn’t yet part of standardized parlance. According to Shinoda, Oita brewery Nishinoseki also released a ginjo koshu aged sake in 1961, but it seems it was sold as a niche product at airports. Ginjo brews weren’t widely sold because the general public had no idea what the word meant. It was an industry term, reserved for sake entered into competitions. “The word ‘ginjo-shu’ wasn’t commonly known until the 1980s,” says Shinoda. Examples of “ginjo” appear in Japanese dictionaries as early as 1935, when the most complete dictionary of the day, Daijiten, defined it as “carefully brewed using selected ingredients.” In the decades that followed, some dictionaries mentioned it, while Kojien, the Japanese dictionary held in highest esteem, did not define the word before1980. Dai Kan-wa Jiten, the most comprehensive postwar kanji dictionary, did not include it in the 1984 edition. In 1975, the year sake production reached its postwar peak, the Japan Sake Makers’ Association released its “Standards for Description of Ingredients and Production Methods.” These labeling and production standards, which were voluntary, defined ginjo-shu, including its polishing ratio. That same year, the Kokuryu Sake Brewery in Fukui released one of the first modern daiginjos, Kokuryu Ginjo Icchorai (icchorai being a local expression for clothing, similar to “one’s Sunday best” in English). It also released Kokuryu Daiginjo Ryu, which was one of the first daiginjo sakes. Ryu is Japanese for “dragon” (the brewery’s name means “black dragon”) and “dai-ginjo” was proudly written on the label. This sake had a polishing ratio of 50 percent (today’s Kokuryu Daiginjo Ryu is polished even further, having a ratio of 40 percent) and was made from the highest grade of Yamada Nishiki rice. Kokuryu had sold its daiginjo locally prior to this release. But in 1975, Kokuryu launched this premium sake nationally, selling it at 32 Takashimaya department stores across Japan. Daiginjo Ryu was one of the most expensive sakes of the day. One 1.8-liter (4-pint) bottle was 5,000 yen. The painstakingly made brew was a forerunner of future super-premium sakes made by brewers with relentless dedication to perfection. However, it would be another five years until the first mass-market ginjo was launched and Japanese sake drinkers went gaga for ginjo.
The Kokuryu brewery in Fukui uses soft water sourced from the evocative sounding Kuzuryugawa or “River of the Nine-Headed Dragon.”
“Prior to that, ginjo-shu was made for the national brewing contest,” says Shotaro Nakano, who, with his wife Akari, is the future of Dewazakura Sake Brewery in Yamagata Prefecture. “Even our brewery made ginjo-shu before 1980.” The reasonably priced Dewazakura Oka went on sale in 1980, marketing ginjo-shu to a public that still didn’t quite know what it was. The “ginjo boom” happened in the mid-1980s. According to Nakano, “Dewazakura Ouka ignited that fire.”
For a rice to be daiginjo, it must be polished to 50 percent or less. Pictured are grains of Yamada Nishiki polished to 40 percent.
Shinoda theorizes that the reason why the floral ginjo brews suddenly became popular was due to Japanese people’s diet. “Before 1970, Japanese people were eating on average 18 grams (½ ounce) of salt a day,” claims Shinoda. Foods like yakitori grilled chicken, tsukemono pickled vegetables and umeboshi pickled plums all have a high salt content. According to Shinoda, salty food makes people want to drink sweeter-tasting alcohol, which is why the heavier, richer sakes of Nada were so popular. “But that much salt isn’t good for you, and mothers started complaining to elementary schools, and school lunches became less salty,” says Shinoda. “This changed the Japanese diet.” In adulthood, these children continued to eat less salty food, and therefore preferred the floral, drier sakes of the 1980s to the sweeter brews popular in the past. “Sake is always connected to food,” says Shinoda. “This is why in the last 10 years, with more people eating salty takeout food, sweeter sakes have seen somewhat of a resurgence.”
But ginjo sake was a game changer. “Compared to previous sake, the scent of ginjo—what’s called the ginjoka—was quite different,” says Nakano. The sake world was never the same.
Some breweries have their workers directly touch their rice with their bare hands, while others worry how that will impact flavor and require their brewers to wear gloves.
One of the most important aspects not only in ginjo sake making but in all sake making is cleanliness, which helps avoid unwanted flavors.
Two brewers at the Dewazakura Sake Brewery take a breather as they remove hot rice from the steamer.
“Wataribune is a resurrected rice, so perhaps it might be better to use more of the grain,” says Tomita. “But we wanted to offer a contrast and allow people to compare sake made at the same brewery with the same water, the same yeast and the same rice, but with different polishing ratios.”
Tomita Shuzo’s results are fascinating. The 77-percent polishing-ratio bottling has fatter flavors, but the richness of the rice comes through in the more-polished daiginjo version. Yet the brewery’s less-polished version doesn’t feel top-heavy, and it has a nice, clean finish.
“The more rice is polished, the more essential the brewing technique is for the final characteristics,” says Tomita. “The less the rice is polished, the more important the flavors of the rice become.”
Cloudy and Undiluted Sake
These types of sake are closer to the uncut tipples either freshly pressed at breweries or made at home before do-it-yourself brewing became illegal in the late 19th century.
Nigorizake にごり酒: “Nigori” does not mean “unfiltered,” as it’s sometimes incorrectly translated; rather, it means “cloudy.” Since nigorizake is seishu (refined sake), it is filtered—though not to the same degree. Created in the 1960s by Kyoto’s Masuda Tokubee Shoten, it’s a modern version of doburoku, or unfiltered sake (see page 154).
Genshu 原酒: Simply put, this is undiluted sake. Typically, sake is cut with water, bringing the alcohol by volume (ABV) down to 15 to 16 percent from its original 18 to 22 percent. No brewed drink has a higher natural alcohol percentage than sake. There are genshu brews that do have ABV levels as low as 15 percent, and a sake can still be considered a genshu if it has added water. However, the water cannot lower the alcohol content by 1 percent or more.
Yasunobu Tomita holds a bottle of his brewery’s excellent junmai Wataribune brew.
Unpolished Wataribune (on the right, in the plastic bag) is contrasted with Wataribune grains polished to 77 percent (on the left, in the round case).
Just-pressed sake has a fresh, fizzy quality that vanishes during pasteurization and storage. That’s not the case with this sparkling, cloudy sake. (For more, see page 223.)
Bottles of sparkling Dassai.
Sparkling Sake
Invented in America in 1939, sparkling sake made a comeback in Japan in 1998, when Ichinokura launched Ichinokura Sparkling Sake Suzune. There are several types of sparkling sake. One style takes already fermenting unpasteurized sake and does a second fermentation in the bottle, à la champagne. The other style bottles still-fermenting nigorizake for a fizzy, tart brew. Generally, since both styles are still fermenting, they should be refrigerated. These styles are called kassei-shu (the cloudy version is dubbed kassei nigorizake). Another style adds carbon dioxide to already-fermented sake, making for a sake that is stable, but perhaps lacking personality.
In November 2016, the Japan Awasake (awa means “foam”) Association was established. The group has a handful of rules, such as: sparkling sake can only be made from rice, koji and water; the carbon dioxide must be naturally occurring (i.e., the fizz cannot be added); bubbles must be clearly evident when poured; and it must have a minimum of 10 percent alcohol by volume.
Styles of Starter
Brewing sake involves making a highly concentrated yeast starter called either a shubo (literally the “mother of sake”) or a moto (the “base” of sake). Not only can the starter dictate how fermentation progresses, but the flavors in the starter can carry over to the final sake. This brewing stage is so paramount that sakes can be categorized by their starters.
Kimoto 生酛 and yamahai 山廃: These terms describe two sake yeast starters, as well as distinct flavor profiles. They are genres unto themselves, amounting to just 10 percent of all sake produced—yamahai accounts for 9 percent and kimoto only 1 percent. Both starters require about three to four weeks.
Dating from the late 17th century and appearing to originate in Kobe’s Nada brewing district, kimoto is a style of yeast starter in which the brewers mash rice and koji in small tubs of water into a creamy puree with oars and poles. The technique, called yama-oroshi, arose when it wasn’t possible to polish the rice to today’s superfine ratios, and brewers thought mashing the rice and koji together was necessary to make the starter. Finely polished rice has eased this labor somewhat; however, it’s still physically demanding work. Kimoto-style sake can have deeper and more complex flavors, due to the thoroughgoing way it is made. It can also be smooth, dry and acidic.
The yamahai method omits the yama-oroshi mashing step. Kinichiro Kagi, a researcher at the National Research Institute of Brewing, pointed out in 1909 that mashing the rice and koji together was superfluous, since the koji enzymes naturally dissolve the rice. He was correct, but as rice saccharification isn’t helped by mashing, the rice might not dissolve as uniformly as in the kimoto style, affecting the final flavor. Yamahai-style sake has a flavor profile similar to kimoto, but often with gamy nuances. The name yamahai came from the Japanese love of making long words shorter: thus yama-oroshi haishi (haishi means “ceasing,”) became “yamahai.”
Brewers at Kiku Masamune make kimoto starter.
Clumps of rice are mixed with a paddle to help speed along saccharification.
Sokujo-moto 速醸酛: The vast majority of sake is made with sokujo-moto, or “quick fermentation starter,” which was codified in 1909 by brewing researcher Kamajiro Eda. This technique, used in making 90 percent of all Japanese sake, adds lactic acid to the mixture of steamed rice and koji instead of propagating it naturally, as the kimoto and yamahai methods do. Sokujo takes around two weeks; while the yeast microbes it produces are not as robust and active as those produced with the kimoto and yamahai methods, they can create crisp sakes with low acidity.
Bodaimoto 菩提酛 (aka mizumoto 水酛): Bodaimoto yeast starter produces some of the most acidic sakes available, which among wine drinkers might even elicit comparisons to German Riesling. Mizumoto, which literally means “water starter,” refers to the method of leaving rice to soak uncovered in containers of water that become highly populated with ambient lactic acid. The rice is removed and then steamed, after which the lactic acid–rich water, known as soyashimizu, is then mixed with the cooked rice, protecting it from harmful bacteria. Like sokujo, the bodaimoto (mizumoto) technique creates a starter with natural lactic acid, though it isn’t nearly as stable.
This is one of the oldest styles of starters, dating from the Muromachi period (1333–1573). It is believed to have originated at the Buddhist temple Shoryakuji, located on Bodaisen mountain in Nara, home of the Bodaisen Shingon sect. Sake making was big business for Buddhist temples, which were cradles of learning and innovation in those days, akin to modern universities or research centers. Since bodaimoto was originally a summer brewing process, the practice fell out of use after the Tokugawa government restricted brewing to the winter months in the late 17th century. Although bodaimoto didn’t die out completely—Shinto shrines continued to use the technique to make their sacred unrefined sake called dakushu—it declined even further with the wide acceptance of sokujo in the 20th century. However, on March 3, 1984, Okayama’s Sanyo Shimbun newspaper reported that local brewery Tsuji Honten was reviving bodaimoto to make a nigorizake.
“Mizumoto” and “bodaimoto” refer to the same process, but because bodaimoto has the kanji characters 菩提 (bodai, meaning “enlightenment”), the term carries strong Buddhist associations. There is (as yet) no bodaimoto association comparable to the International Trappist Association, which has certain stipulations for Trappist beer, such as that the beer must be brewed by monks in a monastery (or at least under their supervision). However, there is an annual bodaimoto brewing event every January at Shoryakuji, the Buddhist temple where the technique was perfected.
Every year, breweries gather at Shoryakuji Temple, famous for bodaimoto, to make a modern version of this traditional yeast starter. The breweries use that starter to create a variety of bodaimoto brews, such as this one, reviewed on page 218.
ADDING BREWER’S ALCOHOL
Brewer’s alcohol can be made from cereal grains or sugarcane molasses. However, the law forbids the use of chemically produced synthetic alcohol. Some breweries do insist on using brewer’s alcohol made from rice, which is more expensive. The raw sugarcane is distilled into a crude spirit—often done in Brazil—and then imported to Japan, where one of the major distillers runs it through their high-tech multistory-tall column stills repeatedly until they produce a pure, clean alcoholic spirit. Even though the brewer’s alcohol might technically hail from another country, it would not be in any condition to put into honjozo-shu or futsu-shu without the expertise of Japanese distillers.
There is also a tradition of adding distilled spirit to sake to fortify the drink, just as there is a long history of adding alcohol to fortified wines like port and sherry. According to Domo shuzoki (loosely "Brewing for dummies), a brewing guide from 1685, adding the distilled spirit shochu will help bring out flavors and fend off bacteria that could cause spoilage. Another brewing text, dating from 1771, states that adding shochu does improve the sake, but also makes it drier. Contemporary breweries like Abekan Shuzoten in Miyagi Prefecture and Konotomo Shuzo in Hyogo Prefecture add their in-house distilled shochu to make a sake style known as hashira jikomi. What makes this practice even more remarkable is that only a handful of breweries have the necessary equipment to distill their own spirit, and shochu fetches good money on its own. Tamanohikari, a pioneer of the junmai-shu revival, has its own still with a worm-tub condenser that could produce excellent spirits, but since it doesn’t add alcohol to any of its sake, the brewery doesn’t make the hashira style. Cost and ability aside, most brewers now prefer to use the light, high-proof brewer’s alcohol because it doesn’t have a strong character like shochu does and it won’t affect flavor. Brewer’s alcohol is added for its effect on the sake, not because of its inherent flavor or properties.
During the 20th century, inexpensive brewer’s alcohol was added to sake for different reasons. During the late 1930s, rice shortages poised a threat to sake production, which in turn hurt alcohol taxes. To retain a high level of production, cheap brewer’s alcohol was pumped into sake. In the 1940s breweries were required to add alcohol, so junmai-shu vanished until the 1960s. The practice of “tripling” the sake with added alcohol continued even after shortages ended, ensuring high profit margins. This gave the practice a bad reputation.
Today, the vast majority of all sake made in Japan contains added brewer’s alcohol, the vast majority of which is inexpensive, flavorless distillate. Even the brews that win at the country’s National Sake Competition typically have added brewer’s alcohol, though, so if you dismiss the practice, you might miss out on some excellent sakes.
Maru from Hakutsuru and Tsuki from Gekkeikan are two popular futsu-shu brands. Table sake is often sold in cartons. The first paper-packed sake in Japan was Hakosake Ichidai, which launched in 1967 from Hiroshima’s Chugoku Jozo brewery.
Raw and Unprocessed Sakes
Nama sake varieties constitute a category unto themselves. The word can mean “pure,” “raw,” “undiluted,” “unprocessed” and even “genuine.” In sake, there are several different kinds of nama brews, which give folks the closest opportunity to taste freshly pressed sake, which is always a real treat. Typically sake is pasteurized, matured, filtrated, cut with water and pasteurized again before it is bottled and shipped. (The second pasteurization sometimes happens after the sake has already been bottled.) The different nama brews eliminate one or more of these steps. Nama-zake should be refrigerated and enjoyed in a timely manner.
Nama-zume-shu 生詰め酒: Literally “live bottled sake,” this brew follows the same post-pressing steps as regular sake, but skips the final pasteurization.
Nama-chozo-shu 生貯蔵酒: Literally “live stored sake,” this brew also follows the same post-pressing steps as typical sake, but it forgoes the first pasteurization.
Nama-zake 生酒: In this case “nama” means “raw” or “unprocessed.” This sake is diluted, but is not pasteurized. Unless the label reads muroka (無濾過), meaning “unfiltered,” it has been filtered to balance the flavors. The increased use of chilled shipping containers and the proliferation of refrigeration in sake storage has meant more nama-zake has become available not just in Japan but around the world.
Nama-genshu 生原酒: This is the “raw” or “unprocessed” version of genshu. It skips both pasteurizations and goes straight from pressing to bottling with filtering, unless it’s muroka (“unfiltered”).
PREMIUM SAKE RISING
The Return of Junmai
“My father was the first person to bring back the sake made from 100 percent rice that today we’d call junmai-shu,” says Hiroshi Ujita, owner of Tamanohikari in Fushimi, Kyoto. It was 1964, the year of the Tokyo Olympics, and for the first time since World War II ended, pure sake was back. “Before the war, all sake was junmai-shu,” says Ujita. Moments ago, he had been working on a laptop in a conference room, but leaped up after hearing me ask about his brewery’s history. His eyes are lively, and his voice is booming. This is important history, and his father, Fukutoki, had a major part in it.
“Up until 1940, Japanese law said that sake was made from rice, koji and water,” Ujita says. During the war and in the years after, rice shortages meant that brewers had to make sake with little or even no rice. As in the past, the government needed an alcohol tax to raise funds. “So, sake started being made with added brewer’s alcohol, glucose and amino acids.” The additives were cheaper than making sake from just rice. But it was the customers who ended up paying a different price. “You drink that stuff and the next day, you’re going to end up with a pounding headache,” says Ujita. “My father didn’t want to sell sake that gave people nasty hangovers. The answer was to make sake as it had been before the war.”
Yucho Shuzo brewery goes to great lengths to bottle the freshest nama-zake possible. Their Kaze no Mori sake, pictured here, is reviewed on page 235.
The sake business, however, was rolling in money, thanks to added-alcohol brews. The profit margins were enormous, and other brewers, as well as the Japanese tax office, probably weren’t thrilled with the idea of cutting into those margins by ditching brewer’s alcohol and other additives. But by 1961, rice shortages had ended and surpluses actually became a problem. Without that extra rice, it would have been difficult to make the shift back to additive-free sake.
At that time, the term “junmai-shu” did not exist. Tamanohikari used the word mutenka-shu, or “additive-free sake.” (These days, the term is used to refer to sake made with ambient, not added, yeast.) It might seem innocuous now, but at that time, the descriptor was confrontational. It strongly implied that other sake makers were adding things. “It was like dad was picking a fight,” says daughter Chiyoko Higashi, who sits on the brewery’s board of directors.
Tamanohikari’s mutenka-shu went on sale in 1964. It was a revolutionary moment in post – World War II sake history, but this was initially lost on the country’s sake drinkers. Higashi explains, “After my father had made up his mind, the resulting sake was expensive, and customers at that time didn’t understand why.” From 1940 to 1993, the Japanese government categorized sake into different grades and taxed them accordingly. Tamanohikari didn’t submit its expensive pure-rice sake to the tax office, reasoning that it would be taxed less to help keep its already high price down, even though the country would classify it at a lower grade. “It was grade-two sake,” says Ujita—the cheaper stuff—even though Tamanohikari’s sake was a premium sake at a premium price.
The sign reads Kanzen mutenka seishu tamanohikari or “Completely additive-free refined sake Tamanohikari.”
“It was comical, because, at department stores, the staff would say, ‘This is Tamanohikari and it’s made from 100 percent rice,’” says Ujita. “The customer would ask what grade it was, be told it was grade two, and then say they couldn’t buy lower-grade sake as a gift. The customers wouldn’t even listen.” (Japan’s gift-giving culture, incidentally, helped ensure steady sake sales during the postwar era; companies would send bottles of sake for summer and winter gifts.) Fukutoki Ujita knew that pure-rice sake might not catch on if people didn’t understand what it was. “He had to change perceptions, and he needed regular folks to understand,” says the younger Ujita. “Which is why he opened a restaurant, our first, in Tokyo Station.” That was in July 1969.
A Tamanohikari worker sorts bottles as they come down the bottling line.
Tamanohikari Black Label is a junmai daiginjo made with Omachi rice polished to 35 percent, which is quite a feat considering how difficult polishing Omachi can be. The tassels are all tied by hand. For more on Omachi, see pages 80–81.
While the general public might not have yet embraced the pure-rice sake, other sake makers were starting to. In Hiroshima, Kamoizumi Shuzo began making its own mutenka-shu in 1965, and after some trial and error made what would be considered a junmai ginjo today. “We didn’t aim to turn junmai-shu into a luxury product,” says Kamoizumi’s Kazuhiro Maegaki. “In 1965, when the limits on the rice supply were lifted, it became possible to brew sake without adding brewer’s alcohol.” The brewery did a series of tests, attempting to manage the higher cost of raw materials as well as adjusting the different flavors and clarity of those early junmai revivals. Finally, in 1972, Kamoizumi released its all-rice brew. “When it went on sale,” says Maegaki, “it wasn’t labeled as junmai-shu, but rather, mutenka seishu” (that is, additive-free refined sake). During that same period, Hiroshi Uehara, a sake consultant and researcher, worked with brewers in Tottori to bring back junmai-shu in 1967, while in Kyoto, Masuda Tokubee Shoten was already seeing how its junmai brew would age. Chiyonosono Shuzo, a brewery in Kumamoto, launched its own junmai-shu in 1968.
The next decade put the pure-rice sake revival into high gear. In 1970, there was a rice surplus, which led to the repeal of a law that allotted only a certain amount for sake production. Suddenly, brewers were able to get their hands on as much rice as they needed. The Junsui Nihonshu Kyoukai (Pure Japanese Sake Association) was founded in 1972; its members included Tamanohikari and Kamoizumi. In the years that followed, breweries began labeling their sakes as “junmai-shu” (“pure-rice sake”) instead of “mutenka-shu.” In 1982, the Shinkame brewery in Saitama because the first brewery in the postwar era to switch all of its production to junmai-shu only, something that is now standard in many craft breweries.
“As of 2017, junmai-shu comprises 25.9 percent of the sake made in Japan,” says Ujita. “Meaning that nearly three-quarters of it still has added alcohol.” It also means that junmai-shu still has room to grow.
Niche Sakes
These niche offerings may be hard to find, but that doesn’t mean they are less important or less delicious than more common brews.
Kijoshu dessert sake 貴醸酒: This sake was born in 1973 after the National Research Institute of Brewing decided there should be a luxurious nihonshu to serve at diplomatic functions instead of wine or champagne. A researcher named Makoto Satoh devised a sweet brew that used sake in the later brewing stage instead of water. When sake is adding during the final stage, fermentation stops. The yeast is overwhelmed by all the sugar, and producing acidic compounds. All the sugars that should have been converted into alcohol are left behind, resulting in a delightfully sweet, yet highly acidic brew. According to an imperial manuscript dating from 927, there was a similar historical precedent for this sake, but kijoshu is very much a modern invention. For more on kijoshu, see pages 150–151.
Shiga Prefecture brewery Emishiki is known for its kijoshu dessert sakes. Here is a a collection of releases at the brewery.
Koshu aged sake 古酒: Literally “old sake,” koshu has no legal definition. Within the sake industry, any sake that has been matured within the brewing year is technically koshu, and the term jukusei koshu (matured koshu) is used for brews with older vintages of three years or more. However, consumers tend to refer to any sake that’s aged for an extended period of time as koshu, with the longer maturation period resulting in rich flavors that will appeal to whisky, sherry and brandy drinkers.
In 1966, the Kyoto brewery Masuda Tokubee Shoten, a favorite of renowned film director Akira Kurosawa, revived koshu. The brewery’s president at the time discovered a description of koshu in Honcho shokkan (A mirror of our country’s food), a compendium of Japanese food published in 1697. “Shinshu is newly brewed 100 percent rice sake, and koshu is 100 percent rice sake that is over a year old,” reads the text, which also notes that koshu’s aroma does not become pleasant and its flavor doesn’t deepen until the three-year mark. The maturation process, with sake aging in jugs, was also described. Masuda Tokubee Shoten brewed what would become its first koshu in 1966 from Yamada Nishiki rice with a polishing ratio of 35 percent and released it a decade later as Kohaku Hikari (Amber Light). It was a domestic-only premium product, then priced at 5,000 yen for the smaller 720 ml (1½-pint) bottle and 10,000 yen for the larger 1.8-liter (4-pint) bottle. Masuda Tokubee Shoten still makes its 10-year Kohaku Hikari, which it now ships around the globe.
Now, in the brewery’s attic, more than 1,200 20-liter (5-gallon) ceramic jugs are stacked up like casks to age. The stopper of each jug is made from paulownia wood and sealed with washi (Japanese paper). There are glazed and unglazed ceramic jugs; the unglazed ones are highly susceptible to evaporation in Kyoto’s notoriously humid summers. Like whisky and wine in casks, a portion of the koshu in jugs evaporates into the air. In English, this is called the “angel’s share,” which is literally translated into Japanese as tenshi no wakemae. But what percentage of koshu evaporates each year? Masuda Tokubee Shoten brewer Guillaume Ozanne reckons it’s difficult to give an exact number, because while the ceramic jugs look largely uniform, each one is handcrafted and therefore has its own unique properties. How much koshu evaporates can ultimately depend on the jug, and the brewers won’t find that out until afterward. Sometimes, they can lose 20 percent, while other times, they actually lose 100 percent. “We were the first to bring back koshu, and we’re still the only ones to age it like this,” says the Normandy-born Ozanne.
After Masuda Tokubee Shoten revived the brewing of koshu, a small number of breweries, such as Sawanotsuru, followed suit (see pages 131–33). To avoid evaporation during maturation, other breweries either cold-store their koshu or age it at low temperatures.
Taruzake 樽酒: Meaning “cask sake,” taruzake comprised pretty much all sake sold until the advent of bottles in the 20th century. In those days sake was shipped and sold in cedar casks, which had the side effect of imparting woody notes onto the sake. These days, taruzake is hardly standard fare, but Kiku Masamune in Kobe’s Nada brewing district has continued to make it, even employing coopers to craft the casks. Typically, sake is stored in the casks only for a couple days, so this is more of a flavoring than prolonged aging. (To read more about cask aging, see page 34.)
In the foreground is a bottle of Sawanotsuru’s honjozo aged sake that was brewed in 1973.
The maturation cellar at Masuda Tokubee Shoten, filled with ceramic jugs.
Masuda Tokubee Shoten brewer Guillaume Ozanne hails from Normandy in France and worked at French yogurt-maker Dannon, before moving to Japan.
The Return of Koshu
During the Edo period (1603–1868), records state that koshu was fetching two to three times more than other sake. It was a premium product. Samurai sake aficionados no doubt liked koshu’s savory and sweet flavors and were aware that to make koshu, you needed precious time. According to one Edo shopping guide from 1824, nine-year-old koshu (yes, there were age statements!) was more than double the cheapest koshu and three times the price of the least expensive new brew. But during the Meiji period (1868–1912) and the years that followed, old sake became a relic of the past.
“Now when we make sake, we are taxed on the sake we ship from the brewery,” says Hiroyuki Konno, the assistant brewing manager at Sawanotsuru. “But during the Meiji period, breweries were taxed on the sake they made.” That meant storing sake was a tax liability, and breweries began selling sake as soon as possible to recoup costs. In both the Russo-Japanese War and World War II, the Japanese government wanted sake breweries to make and sell as much sake as possible to pay for its military machine. During World War II, especially, when there were rice shortages forcing breweries to make imitation sake, aging sake was inconceivable. “In 1954, the law changed,” says Konno. “Breweries were taxed on what they shipped, but by that time everyone had forgotten about koshu.”
“This koshu dates from 1973,” says Konno. On a table in this meeting room are 11 bottles of koshu dating from 1973 to 2014. The sake comes in shades that you don’t typically see in sake—cream, amber, honey and marmalade. “Do you see these different hues?” Konno asks, holding up a glass of koshu from 1991. I take a sip. The flavors are more pronounced than in typical sake, and the aromas remind me of brandy or even whisky, though more reserved, and without the oak notes. I nose a 2010 junmai ginjo koshu: there are flowers and old books. The 2008 junmai daiginjo koshu is creamy vanilla. But in the background and the finish, there’s umami, and depending on the koshu, the savoriness can range from that of a light broth to a much deeper one reminiscent of soy sauce. At the end of the table are the older vintages. Light streams through a lace curtain, softly illuminating the koshu. I nose a 1973 junmai koshu. It’s like a delicious Sunday breakfast, with maple and pancakes. “We haven’t released that one just yet,” Konno says. “I think it needs more time.” I think it’s fantastic.
Today, koshu comprises just a tiny percentage of all sake. There are less than 30 breweries nationwide in Japan’s Association for Long Term Aged Sake, of which the Nada brewery Sawanotsuru is a member. The group defines jukusei koshu (matured koshu) as sake that has been aged for three years, because that that point the savory flavors and aromas are apparent. During its second year of maturation, the differences become noticeable, but this period is koshu’s awkward adolescent phase, and the changes are not necessarily for the better. By the third year, the savory flavors and aromas associated with koshu start to appear. Incidentally, this is also how long Scotch spirit must age in oak to be called whisky.
Stepping out of an elevator, Konno walks down a dark hallway to one of Sawanotsuru’s koshu cellars. Inside, it’s a cool 55°F (13°C) and the room is packed with 22 two-ton green enamel tanks. Koshu was originally aged in clay pots known as kame, so the enamel tanks might not be historically correct, but they do create an environment in which the sake can mature without its flavor being influenced. Rocks and cinder blocks sit on top of the tanks’ lids to keep them closed. At Sawanotsuru, junmai and futsu-shu are left to mature at room temperature. However, junmai ginjo sakes are in maturation rooms set to 59°F (15°C), while the delicate junmai daiginjo age at a lower temp of 41–50°F (5–10°C). The reason for this difference between room and low temperature maturation is the intent: Sawanotsuru wants to see how much junmai and futsu-shu change during aging, while the brewery wants to slowly age its premium ginjo and daiginjo for rounder flavors. Once it reaches the optimum flavor profile, like the 1973 vintage, it is stored in a maturation room at 41°F (5°C) to keep it from aging further.
Different styles of sake age differently. From left to right: a kimoto junmai from 2014, a junmai-shu from 1991, a junmai-shu from 1973, and a honjozo from 1973.
If there is no interaction with wood, where does Sawanotsuru’s koshu get its amber and brown hues? “A big difference between sake and distilled spirits is that if you leave, say, whisky alone, it won’t change color. Sake will.” The reason, says Konno, is that distilled spirits do not have components that will change color. “Sake changes its hue by simply leaving as is, because it has amino acids, organic acids and sugars.
“But after that, the sake starts to mature nicely, becoming richer and changing color as sake sediment collects at the bottom of the tank,” says Konno. “All that intensity reaches a peak, and then the sake settles down and becomes smooth and crisp to drink.” These changes happen over decades, and the brewers don’t just leave the sake to age in a temperature-controlled room. They check the flavors annually. Furthermore, every decade, depending on how the sake is maturing, they remove some—but not all—of the sediment, which consists of rice and yeast particles and other material, in a process known as oribiki, or “sediment removal.” The koshu is then placed in a new tank. “Here is the oldest batch in this maturation room,” Konno says, pointing to the date on a tank.
“Compared to vintage wine and old whiskies, koshu isn’t expensive at all,” says Konno. “That’s because people in Japan don’t yet fully appreciate its value.” Drink up while you can, because one day, that might change.
The Nada-gogo brewing district in Kobe is famous for its hard water (for more, see pages 90–91). However, its success was also due to local rivers like the Toga River (pictured) that helped power the waterwheels that made previously unseen rice-polishing rates possible for delicious sakes.
Hiroyuki Konno fills a glass with Sawanotsuru’s vintage sake.
THE MASTER CASK MAKER
“I’ve been making casks for over 30 years,” says master cooper Takeshi Tamura. Using a blade, he splits a long strip of bamboo down the middle. His movements are practiced and precise. He then takes the strip and whips it round like Indiana Jones. In seconds, he’s made a perfect hoop called a taga. Apprentices spend months mastering these motions before they begin making the actual cask. “You start with the taga,” Tamura says. “If you can’t learn that, then you can’t move to the next step.” Today, Tamura is making about 10 casks for Kiku Masamune brewery’s taruzake (cask sake).
Since its founding in 1659, Kiku Masamune has been making taruzake. Before the 20th century, taruzake was commonplace. If you were drinking sake, it was most likely transported and stored in wood. Today, most sake breweries don’t make taruzake, and the ones that do typically don’t make their own taru, or casks. Before glass bottles appeared in the late 1800s, sake was carried in taru casks from Nada in western Japan to modern-day Tokyo via ships known as tarukaisen, which literally means “cask cargo vessels.” It would take around 12 days to transport the casks from western to eastern Japan. Once the sake arrived in Tokyo, liquor shops would keep it in the casks it was shipped in. Storing the brew in cedar casks added extra flavors.
During the 20th century, when other breweries moved away from cask maturation, Kiku Masamune continued making taruzake, even during the Second World War, when the confusion and chaos pushed aside time-consuming and expensive traditional methods. In 1966, the brewery launched a bottled version of taruzake that is still sold today—in 2017, it produced 1,180 kiloliters (311,723 gallons) of the stuff. For Kiku Masamune, one of the biggest breweries in Nada, cask-aged sake is a signature part of its lineup. For the sake industry as a whole, though, it’s still a niche product, because most breweries are unable to employ master coopers. Kiku Masamune, however, makes all its casks in-house, thanks to the increasingly rare skill set possessed by Tamura and his fellow coopers. “Taruzake is a lot of work,” he says, “but it’s worth it.”
Tamura begins fitting 16 staves, called kure, in place. Japanese casks are much smaller than their Western counterparts, holding 72 liters. The small size allows greater interaction between the brew and the wood. Kiku Masamune stores its sake in casks for a brief time, but does not ship it in casks; its aim is to flavor the brew with sugi, or Japanese cedar.
“We always make our casks from Yoshino sugi,” Tamura says, holding up a stave. “I’ve only ever made casks from that sugi.” Yoshino, a small Nara town with less than 10,000 residents, is famous for two things: cherry blossoms that have inspired centuries of Japanese art and poetry, and high-quality sugi cedar with a long grain and no knots. Only Japanese sugi that are over 100 years old are large enough to be turned into cask lumber.
The wood has a fresh, green aroma. “That’s the scent of the organic compound terpene,” says Toshinari Takahashi, the production manager at Kiku Masamune. This brings out the refreshing dryness of Kiku Masamune’s sake. It also has a sharp taste, so the sake only gets a quick finish in the casks for two or three days; any longer might make the brew overwhelming for modern tastes.
Tamura turns over one of the staves, showing the side that must line up perfectly with the stave next to it. “This side is called the shojiki surface,” pointing to the side. “Shojiki” means “honest,” “upright” or “frank.” The word perfectly describes the approach to Japanese cooperage. Before the staves are fitted in place, their sides are shaved with a special plane called a shojiki-dai, so that they fit together, which also releases the flavors in the wood. Glue and nails aren’t used, so everything needs to line up perfectly.
With a couple of thwacks, Tamura hammers two taga hoops into place, flips the cask on its side and begins shaving the inside to make it smooth and uniform. The staves are various heights, with some jutting up slightly higher. Flipping the cask over again, Tamura takes a two-handled drawknife called a sen, lays it against the edge and pulls it toward his body, making the top edge even and sending little wood chips flying. He takes a cask head, or lid, bending it slightly, and then pushes it flat into place at the top, sealing the cask, before hammering on four more taga, shaving the bottom staves so they align perfectly, and then putting in one last taga.
When the cask is finished, it’s ready to be taken into the filling room, where it’s filled with sake for a quick two-week maturation, enough to give the sake elegant forest notes without overpowering the brew. Since only fresh casks are used, once the maturation is finished, casks are resold to shops that make tsukemono pickled vegetables.
Tamura stops, wipes his brow. This is the first cask of the day; only 10 or so more to go.
Takeshi Tamura fits the staves together.
With taga hoops holding the staves in place, Tamura shaves the cask’s inside.
Tamura works with a two-handled drawknife called a sen.
The cooper pounds the cask’s lid, which is known as a kagami.
THE SEASONS OF SAKE
Sake has long reflected seasonality. The brewing season season starts in fall and ends in early spring, although many producers these days brew year-round. Traditionally, brewers worked in fishing or agriculture, whose low seasons coincided neatly with the sake-making season. Even further in the past, however, sake was made throughout the year. Different seasons meant different styles of sake as well as varied production methods. For example, the bodaimoto (aka mizumoto) yeast starter was developed at a Buddhist temple by the 1300s, so monks could brew sake during the summer with fewer batches going to rot. But kanshu, sake brewed during the winter, was the most expensive.
In 1673 the Tokugawa shogunate restricted brewing to the winter to ensure a stable rice supply and create seasonal brewing labor. The seasonal brewers became a staple of sake making until the late 20th and early 21st centuries, when production dropped significantly and more rural young people either migrated to cities or lost interest in the low-paying, backbreaking work of sake brewing, which required them to be away from home for months at a time.
But sake brewing is suited to cold weather. Steaming, koji making and fermentation give off natural heat, which is easier to manage in the winter. Temperature control is one of the most important elements in sake production. Before refrigerators and air-conditioners, winter brewing made this easier. If brewers needed to adjust the temperature of the yeast starter, they could add a dakidaru (a water- or ice-filled container). Analog temperature control wasn’t only important in the winter. The outside walls of breweries were painted white to reflect light, keeping things cool.
With the advent of refrigeration during the 20th century, sake breweries were able to stay in production throughout the year. Year-round breweries were built in Hawaii and Taiwan at the turn of the 20th century, as the warmth of the local climates made batches of sake susceptible to rot-inducing bacteria. In 1961, Gekkeikan in Kyoto and Reimei Shuzo in Nagasaki each built Japan’s first year-round breweries to meet the demand of the nation’s skyrocketing population.
A line-up of fall-release sakes. To learn about the different subgenres reflecting the micro-seasons of Japan’s autumn, see facing page.
Limited-release summer sakes. The tags recommend serving these brews chilled. The bottles are blue to underscore that point.
The Brewing Year
Although the winter brewing season starts in the fall and ends in the spring, the 12-month brewing year starts on July 1 and ends on June 30. The brewing year, denoted by a “BY” on the bottle’s back label, corresponds to the imperial era, which needs to be converted to the common era for Westerners to know the vintage. For example, Reiwa 2 (the second year of Emperor Naruhito’s reign) is 2020. Thus, sake brewed between July 1, 2020, and June 30, 2021, would actually have the brewing year of R2, or 2020. The staggered brewing calendar and the imperial conversions can make the brewing year seem rather opaque. Some breweries have switched over to common-era yearly markings to make their vintages easier for non-Japanese customers to understand.
Is there a best time to buy sake? Nope! However, there are certain seasonal releases to keep in mind. Currently, there are no legal definitions of the seasonal brews listed on the following pages.
Spring
Nama-zake 生酒: Nama means “raw,” and here refers to unpasteurized sake from the just-ended brewing season. While it’s available year round, early spring is when the freshest nama-zake is available. Fresh, lively and even sharp and brash, nama-zake is the perfect spring brew.
Summer
Natsu-zake 夏酒: This designation is often given to nama-zake specially packaged and bottled for summer (natsu in Japanese). There are also unpasteurized and unfiltered versions that pack an extra punch. Usually, natsu-zake is light and fresh, but some are zesty and deep. Often they are best ice cold or chilled. However, there are some exceptions, like Kinoshita Shuzo’s summertime-only Ice Breaker release, which, even though it’s a summer exclusive, is fantastic hot. Stock up on a few bottles for fall and winter.
My co-author Takashi Eguchi trims a sugidama. Even this small one can take over six hours. No glue is used at all.
A browned sugidama outside Imanishi Shuzo brewery in Sakurai, Nara, where the sugidama was born.
Autumn
Aki-agari 秋上がり: This is sake sold in fall (aki in Japanese). It is brewed during the coldest months of the previous season and aged through the summer, resulting in a milder flavor profile with rounder tastes. Aki-agari sake is pasteurized before its six-month storage and gets a second pasteurization before shipping. Aki-agari sake is good hot, eaten with Japanese fall foods like matsutake mushrooms, salted fish and hot pot.
Hiya-oroshi ひやおろし: Like aki-agari, hiyaoroshi is matured through the summer and pasteurized before storage. However, as it is not pasteurized a second time, it keeps some of the freshness and desired sharpness of nama-zake. Chilled storage is necessary and stated in the name “hiya-oroshi”—hiya means “cold” and oroshi means “wholesale,” or “being taken down” (as if off a shelf). Some hiya-oroshi taste best chilled, while others shine at room temperature or hotter.
Within hiya-oroshi, there are three subgenres, which each reflecting different micro-seasons: Nagoshi-zake 夏越し酒: Literally “over the summer sake,” this hiya-oroshi is released in September, when the weather is still warm. It’s often best drunk chilled or at room temperature. Note that modern nagoshi-zake differs from the traditional nagoshi-no-sake, which is used in a purification ceremony at a midsummer Shinto festival called Nagoshi-no-Harai.
Akidashi ichibanzake 秋出し一番酒: Released in October, this hiya-oroshi brew is typically well balanced. Akidashi means “release in fall,” and ichibanzake means “number-one sake.”
Banshu-umazake 夜秋旨酒: Aged the longest of the hiya-oroshi releases, banshu-umazake (literally “late fall good sake”) is mellow, round and ripe, typically with more umami than the other releases. Released in November, this sake is worth the wait. Usually, it’s best heated.
Winter
Shiboritate 搾り立て: “Just pressed.” One of life’s great pleasures is tasting sake right after pressing. Shiboritate is often fresh, full bodied and young, but can be spunky and sharp. As it’s unpasteurized, more of the rice flavors are apparent. It’s not strictly a winter release, but is often at its best late November through February. However, it is available through March.
Shinshu 新酒: Though there is no legal definition, shinshu (new sake) is typically assumed to be made from rice harvested during the current brewing year. Sake shipped by the end of June is technically shinshu. Sake that is then aged over the summer is either aki-agari or hiya-oroshi, depending on the pasteurization.
In years past, when the shinshu was ready, breweries would hang a sugidama (literally “Japanese cedar ball”), also known as a sakabayashi (“sake thicket”) out front. Many breweries now keep a sakabayashi out year-round as a sake-brewing symbol. The Japanese cedar branches are fanned out and painstakingly trimmed to form a perfect sphere. Initially, the needles are green, indicating fresh new sake. Fittingly, the sakabayashi turns brown as the sake ages and mellows over the summer.
The sakabayashi is said to have originated at Ohmiwa Shrine, one of Japan’s oldest, as an offering for the deity. Mount Miwa, home of the shrine, is covered in cedar trees, which traditionally were used to make brewing equipment. It is unclear what the round shape symbolizes.
Sakabayashi are hung wherever sake is made, be it a brewery or the National Research Institute of Brewing in Hiroshima, which makes sake for research purposes. Even bars, restaurants and liquor shops hang a sakabayashi out front as a decoration.
The precincts of Ohmiwa Shrine in Nara. The Japanese cedar in the foreground is sacred, which is denoted by the shimenawa rope tied around it. The shrine sits at the foot of Mt. Miwa, which is also worshipped as a sacred deity.
Shrine maidens carry omiki, which is sake offered to the gods, during the annual Ohmiwa Shrine sake ceremony in November.
Brewers at Nishida Sake Brewery in Aomori Prefecture break up clumps of steamed rice.
