San Francisco Magazine
May 2009
When it comes to describing food, the word simple is too often the default adjective of the simple-minded. In cooking, outward simplicity happens when the ingredients and technique are so skillfully and seamlessly integrated that they become invisible, making it seem as if the food appeared on the plate when the cook wasn’t looking. This is particularly true of dashi, the stock that is the backbone of Japanese cooking. Food writers tend to lazily trumpet how easy it is to make, while failing to emphasize where its complex flavors originate: in katsuobushi, one of the most manipulated foods on the planet.
The process of making katsuobushi, a preserved fish often known as dried bonito in this country, is anything but simple. The fillets—usually skipjack tuna—are cut into pieces and boiled in salted water, then hot smoked for 10 to 20 days, until they harden. After that, they’re inoculated with one or several molds, fermented in a sealed box for a few weeks, then sun-dried and scraped of their surface mold. This process is repeated several times over the course of a few months, until the fish looks and feels like a piece of wood.
Katsuobushi bears so little resemblance to food that I brought several pieces of it back from Japan in my carry-on bag without eliciting even a raised eyebrow at customs. In its whole form, the fish is unusable—it must be shaved thinly before it can be eaten. This requires either an expensive tool that resembles a tiny cedar coffin with a single blade on top, or a visit to any good Japanese grocery, which will carry bags of katsuobushi flakes.
It may be a Japanese invention, but katsuobushi is one of those rare ingredients that have transcended their cultural genesis. As David Kinch, chef-owner of Manresa, in Los Gatos, told me, “Katsuobushi has become a staple of the fine-dining pantry.” Kinch first started working with the preserved fish in the 1980s at the Quilted Giraffe, in New York, and it’s been a mainstay in his pantry at Manresa since the restaurant opened in 2002.
In the mouth, katsuobushi reveals layer after layer of nuanced smoky, meaty aromatics. It’s a flavor that lends itself to a vast range of applications. Kinch uses it in ways both obvious (as a garnish for fresh bonito) and original (scattered over miso-glazed roast eggplant). And, of course, it plays a key role in the dashi that he sometimes uses as a poaching liquid for foie gras and as a cooking medium for grains, and to enrich sautéed wild mushrooms, meat sauces, and braises.
There are many kinds of dashi, but here’s how to make a basic version: Cover a four-inch square of ko-bu (dried seaweed) with a quart of cold water, and heat it to just below a simmer. After five minutes, remove the konbu and add a cup of katsuobushi flakes to the pot, then remove it from the heat and let it stand until the katsuobushi sinks to the bottom, three to five min-utes. Strain the broth through a napkin or a few layers of cheesecloth. I’ve found that using more katsuobushi for a shorter period of time yields a sweet, lively stock. Less katsuobushi for a longer time equals a dull, woody, fishy-tasting dashi.
At my restaurant, Coi, we substitute mushroom and vegetable stocks for water to make a deeply flavored, umami-rich version. Dashi can be made with any kind of clear stock—chicken broth is a particularly nice base. And while it’s true that the basic dashi recipe is quite easy and takes only a few minutes, mastering it is another story. After making our version for seven years, I feel like I’m just starting to understand the subtle interaction between ingredients, temperature, and time.
My new favorite use of katsuobushi is in a dish that Kinch created recently at Manresa. He infused a traditional butter sauce with the fish, gently imbuing the fat with its smoky, savory intensity, then combined vegetables from his garden with the sauce. As he described the recipe to me, I became instantly irritated that I hadn’t thought of it first. It’s a brilliant idea—and so simple.
