Habit No. 2: Miso and its soup

by j.h.

This is a habit if there ever was one. Not yet a daily necessity, perhaps – like a full bowl of honest rice, or a shameless smattering of chili, somewhere, in some form: indeed, the two essentials I can’t bear to be more than a few yards from at all hours, like a crack addict, and with which I travel if at all possible – but more than just an occasional pleasure or simple, homely treat. And homely it certainly is. A small bowl of soup, cloudy with miso, a few small bites floating within, alongside plain and trustworthy rice and a few pickles, makes a fine if not meager breakfast: I know no better a remedy for a long, besotted night out and the heavy, saturated heads that often linger long afterwards. Even better a simple but effective lunch, ideal when a richer evening is in store, or when insatiable hunger sets in suddenly – as it inevitably and inexplicably does – just hours after a bacon-rich brunch, sitting thick in the stomach. (The mysteries of the body are endless.)

A life without the fermented soybean, to my mind, is an existential crisis. In as far as foodstuffs are concerned, soy is the true magician. Rotten and festering with mold, she is an even more captivating temptress. Soy sauce is perhaps the real winner, with its incredible versatility and widespread usefulness, but miso makes for a most honorable and enchanting runner-up. Both iterations of the soybean are head over heals for a certain mold (aspergillus oryzae, a right hunger-inducing mouthful) and are left for months to fester and brood and swoon and bubble and liquefy and let grow inside all the things a tiny legume couldn’t possibly foresee, as a cancer to the body or fanatical love to the mind.

Buying miso is something of a nightmare. I will likely never make true peace with the miso fridge at the local market, a puzzling and unknowable mistress if there ever was one. A few facts ring true, though.

1. As with soy sauce or call-girls, the more expensive the product the better and more agreeable the experience. (I can claim a level of knowledge with only one of those things.) Artisanal varieties are the most desirable. A more beautiful and sensitive packaging tends to suggest the more sensitive contents, an inimitable trick.
2. Shiromiso (‘white miso’) is lighter and more delicate, a perfect introduction. The darker akamiso (‘red miso’) has a funkier, heady flavor. I find awasemiso (‘mixed miso’) a pleasant balance. Look for these distinctions on the labels. You do not need to have a variety of misos on hand, unless you are cooking Japanese food every day. A container of miso will last you a very, very long time.
3. Steer well clear of miso brandishing unnecessary adornments. Most miso is fermented with a combination of soy and another grain, such as rice or barley. Salt, naturally, is also a given. Other ingredients are nothing short of suspicious. Most dubious is the miso I have seen with the ingredients for dashi (kombu and katsuobushi) deviously thrown in for shortcut’s sake. Avoid.
4. Ask the workers which variety they like best. This has never steered me wrong.

A small pot of warm dashi within reach, miso soup is but a few seconds away. In its humblest form, it goes something like this:

Bring a batch of dashi (about two cups) to the boil and turn off the heat. Take your favorite whisk and dunk it gently into a container of miso. Twist it a bit so it catches 2-3 tablespoons of the paste – I like it richly clouded with miso and tend for a bit more. Like toasted sesame oil or the best olive oils, miso is never cooked, lest it lose its complex aroma, but instead added at the last minute, barely heated through. So off the heat, whip the full whisk around in the dashi until it erupts in a foggy swirl and all the miso is dissolved. Have a quick taste, add more miso if you like, and pour into two small bowls. That’s it.

Miso soup is everyday sort of food in Japan, an integral element in the traditional Japanese breakfast. Seasonality is central to the philosophy of Japanese cuisine, and any solids added to the daily soup are meant to reflect the sense of balance that eating with the seasons naturally entails. Other dichotomies, too, are typically at play: something that floats with something that sinks; something strong with something delicate. I return most often to these variations:

Most simply: While assembling the dashi, soak a bit of dried seaweed (wakame) in cold water until soft, and slice or tear into small pieces. (If I’m particularly lazy or groggy, I throw in strips of the spent dashi kombu instead.) Add to the empty bowls with a few pieces of soft tofu – always torn, never sliced. If you like, thinly sliced scallion is also lovely. Pour the warm soup overtop.

Potato: Thinly slice a single small potato into matchsticks – first thin slices, like potato chips, and then across these slices into tiny strips. Add them to the boiling dashi and cook until just tender, still ever-so-slightly firm. This will only take a few minutes; taste one to be sure. Gently whisk in the miso, taking care not to break the potato slivers. Add wakame or scallion to your liking.

Clam: This version is classic. Miso soup is a delicate thing and its presentation matters, so use only the tiniest mollusks you can possibly find. Leave the big whoppers for another time. Bring the dashi to a boil, throw in a few small clams (or a dozen, if you like), scrubbed clean first. Cover. After just a few minutes, they will open, leeching flavor into the stock. Any stubborn clams, unopened, get discarded. Remove the clams and divide amongst the individual bowls. Whisk the miso into the dashi and pour over the clams. Sliced scallion to taste (or mitsuba, Japanese parsley, if you are lucky enough to have a bit). (I have also used small mussels for this version to great aplomb. I first came across this preparation in Nancy Singleton’s comprehensive Japanese Farm Food.)

Miso soup can be served before a meal or at the end of one, with the rice. Sip the soup from the bowl, like tea, and use chopsticks to catch the solids. This is the traditional way. Don’t even think about using a spoon.