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Fat, Spices, Culture and More: Chinese Food in Postwar Japanese Gastronomic
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Asian Studies Review
March 2010, Vol. 34, pp. 63–81

Fat, Spices, Culture and More: Chinese

Food in Postwar Japanese Gastronomic
Writings

TIMOTHY YUN HUI TSU*

Kwansei Gakuin University

Abstract: Chinese cooking is popular in contemporary Japan. It is also a

favourite subject of gastronomic writings that discuss not only the cooking
techniques and ingredients but also the cultural meaning of the cuisine. This paper
analyses the central concerns of this literature and points out its broader cultural-
political implications. It contends that Japanese writings on Chinese food share a
set of common concerns with the fat and spices in the food as well as its
authenticity and cultural meaning. It demonstrates that this gastro-cultural
discourse continually seeks to affirm, deny and transcend the putative
characteristics of Chinese food. It further argues that such writings that seek
to distinguish Chinese from Japanese foodways constitute a gastronomic version
of nihonjinron or Japanese discourse on themselves. Finally, it points out that
gastronomic nihonjinron lends support to Japan’s current effort to reassert its
identity/independence vis-à-vis a ‘‘rising China’’.
Keywords: foodways, Chinese cuisine, Japan, culture, national identity,
nihonjinron

Introduction
The Tokugawa scholar Kaibara Ekken (1630–1714) compares Chinese and Japanese
food in his treatise Y okun (Advice on Nourishing Life). He observes that Chinese
oj
food is rich, oily and sweet whereas Japanese food is plain and light. The Chinese, he
reasons, are born with ‘‘thick’’ stomachs and intestines for digesting heavy
foodstuffs. But, he warns, Japanese cannot eat the same food without suffering
adverse effects (Kaibara, 2002, para. 739). The Chinese prefer animal meat, he
declares, while the Japanese are partial to cereals (Kaibara, 2002, para. 432).

*Correspondence Address: School of International Studies, Kwansei Gakuin University, Uegahara 1-155,
Nishinomiya, Hyogo 662-8501, Japan. Email: timothy.tsu@gmail.com

ISSN 1035-7823 print/ISSN 1467-8403 online/10/010063-19 Ó 2010 Asian Studies Association of Australia
DOI: 10.1080/10357820903568235
64 Timothy Yun Hui Tsu

Although the scientific merit of Ekken’s comparative physiology is uncertain, his

interest in and observations on the difference between Chinese and Japanese
foodways have endured. The idea that Chinese food is heavy and richly flavoured,
and embodies cultural principles fundamentally unlike those underlying Japanese
food, has persisted through the Meiji, Taish o and Showa periods to the present day.
This paper examines how Chinese food has been described, analysed, evaluated
and interpreted in popular gastronomic writings. By ‘‘popular gastronomic
writings’’, I refer primarily to cookbooks, food magazines, restaurant guides,
shopping guides, tour guides and food-related stories in mass-circulation weeklies
[sh
ukanshi]. As a secondary source of information, this paper draws on selected pieces
from comics, chefs’ biographies, food advertisements and books on the Chinese in
Japan [kaky o]1. Although the focus is on the period from 1970 to 2000, the paper
begins with a brief history of Chinese cooking in Japan from the early Meiji period to
the end of World War II, as this information is not readily available in English.
In spite of its ubiquitous presence in contemporary Japanese consumer culture,
Chinese food has received little scholarly attention, apart from a handful of studies
(Aoyama, 2003; 2008; Cwiertka, 2007; Lie, 2004). Though regrettable, this is not
surprising in light of Aoyama’s astute observation that food did not begin to receive
serious attention from writers and academics in Japan until after World War II
(Aoyama, 2008, pp. 7–8, pp. 131–33). However, recent studies highlight the
significance and potential of researching Chinese food in Japan. Cwiertka (2007)
argues that Chinese food, though only a distant second to Western cuisine in terms
of influence, has contributed to the formation not only of modern Japanese cuisine
but also of the country’s cultural-political identity. Aoyama (2008, pp. 131–71) finds
a place for Chinese food in her examination of Japanese gastronomic novels since
the early twentieth century. She also discusses Chinese food in her earlier analysis of
gastronomic writings since World War II (Aoyama, 2003). In the area of consumer
culture, Cheung (2002) and Tsu (2008) highlight the meaning of Chinese food in the
context of the ‘‘gourmet boom’’ and ‘‘tourism boom’’ since the 1970s.
This paper contends that popular writings on Chinese food, despite their different
authors and styles, and despite the variety of cuisines they discuss, share a set of
recurrent concerns – namely, the fat and spices in the dishes, and the culture and
authenticity of the food. It will be demonstrated that this gastro-cultural discourse is
dynamic, displaying an urge to continually – often simultaneously – affirm, deny and
transcend the putative characteristics of Chinese food. Moreover, it will be argued
that such writings are also about Japan. For in seeking to distinguish Chinese from
Japanese foodways, the food-inspired speculations pronounce on the essence of
Japan as well as China (Sasaki, 1999, p. 187). These writings can therefore be read as
a gastronomic version of nihonjinron or Japanese discourse on themselves. In the
conclusion, this paper points out that gastronomic nihonjinron is no mere fantasy but
functions to shore up Japan’s position in its dealings with the growing geopolitical
presence of China.

Historical Background
Like many other aspects of Chinese culture, Chinese foodways have long influenced
Japan. However, Chinese-inspired cuisines in the Tokugawa period (1600–1868)
 Chinese Food in Postwar Japanese Gastronomic Writings 65

such as shippoku ry ori [Chinese-style Japanese cooking with Dutch influence] and
fucha ryori [a type of vegetarian meal] were restricted to particular places and social
circles – namely, Chinese merchants and their Japanese associates in Nagasaki and

the monasteries of the Obaku Sect (Takahashi, 1976, pp. 230–33; Yamamoto, 1983,
pp. 309–14). The Chinese who came to settle in the treaty ports of Yokohama,
Kobe, Nagasaki and Hakodate in the mid-nineteenth century set down the
foundation of today’s Chinese cooking in Japan. The early migrants came on the
coat-tails of Westerners as domestic servants, interpreters and compradors, or as
self-employed traders, craftsmen and labourers (Hoare, 1977).2 Chinese food at this
stage was mainly for Chinese consumption. Unlike Western food, which was
promoted by the government and spread quickly, Chinese food did not benefit from
an association with modernity (Cwiertka, 2007). Moreover, the legal requirement
that Chinese (and Westerners) live within restricted zones curtailed the dissemina-
tion of Chinese foodways.
The earliest Chinese restaurants on record are found in Yokohama in the 1870s
and 1880s. The first Chinese restaurant in Yokohama opened in 1872. In Tokyo,
Eiwa opened in 1879, Kairakuen and T ot
oen in 1883, and Shuhoen Mankan Sh ukan
in 1884 (Kosuge, 1997, p. 23, p. 37, p. 43, p. 46). There is no record of Chinese
restaurants in Kobe in the same decades, but it is likely that they did exist (Ch uka
Kaikan, 2003). Although most Japanese could not have tasted Chinese food at this
time, the exotic image of Chinese cuisine was well enough established for the satirical
Kaika shinbun to impute that Tokyo’s Kairakuen served such bizarre dishes as
‘‘mutton-paste cakes’’ and ‘‘mouse fritters’’ (Kosuge, 1997, p. 43). Towards the end
of the nineteenth century, the restaurant-cum-hostel Shikair o in Nagasaki invented
chanpon, a large bowl of noodles topped with chop suey, which was to attain
national fame (Okada, 2002, pp. 88–90).
Chinese dishes also made their debut in cookbooks. Yoshida Seitar o published
Nihon Shina Seiy ori hitori annai (A Guide to Japanese, Chinese and Western
o ry
Cooking) in 1884. It adopted the tripartite scheme of Japanese-Western-Chinese that
remains to this day the most common way of classifying cuisines in Japan. The same
scheme was used by an article in the first issue of Fuzoku gaho (Manners and Customs
Illustrated), published in 1880 (Cwiertka, 2003, p. 100). In 1889, Ishii Jihee – whose
ancestors had cooked for shoguns and emperors – included Chinese recipes in his
Nihon ry oriho taizen (Complete Book of Japanese Cooking) (Kosuge, 1997, pp. 73–
74). It is a sign of acceptance that Chinese dishes should appear in a self-styled
Japanese cookbook. When the magazine Jokan (A Mirror for Women) carried a
series on Chinese cooking in 1907, the emphasis was on the economic and
nutritional value of Chinese food (Kosuge, 1997, p. 93).The magazine also claimed
that its recipes had been adapted to Japanese tastes. That Chinese cooking had
become part of the recommended repertoire of housewives is an indication of its
growing appeal.
Chinese restaurants were still rare in Tokyo at the turn of the century, and those
that existed catered mainly to the Chinese (Matsuzaki K., 1995, p. 10). After the
First Sino-Japanese War (1894–95) and the Russo-Japanese War (1904–05), more
Chinese came to Japan and more Japanese had travelled in China, which created
more demand for Chinese food (Okada, 2002, p. 99). Ozaki Kan’ichi’s Rairaiken
opened in Asakusa in 1910. Employing Chinese cooks from Yokohama’s
66 Timothy Yun Hui Tsu

Chinatown, it specialised in such economical dishes as noodles and sh umai.3 The
place was dirty, it is claimed, but the food was cheap and tasty, and that was enough
to guarantee its success (Okada, 2002, pp. 91–92). By 1918, Fukuoka nichinichi
shinbun could assert that the Japanese accepted Chinese food as they did Western
clothes (Kosuge, 1997, p. 125). But the dish it named was chop suey – hardly an
example of sophisticated cooking, and an indication of the kind of Chinese food
popular at the time.
The mid-1920s saw greater assimilation of Chinese cooking (Tanaka, 1988, p.
174). This took place against the background of the interest the Taish o Japanese
developed in Chinese material culture (Sasaki, 1999, p. 193). Two factors
contributed to this. The first was continual growth in Chinese immigration (Luo,
1994, pp. 176–313). More Chinese meant more cooks and more customers. Chinese
noodle shops proliferated in the cities and their popularity laid the foundation for
the ramen boom in the postwar period (Okada, 2002, p. 78, pp. 107–08). The second
factor was the Japanese public’s growing familiarity with Chinese food as a result of
the expansion of the Japanese empire. Taiwan and Korea became Japanese colonies
in 1895 and 1910, respectively, and many Japanese made the acquaintance of
Chinese food through living, working or travelling in these colonies and in China. A
report by the Governor-General of Korea stated that the number of Chinese eateries
in the cities and towns of Korea increased rapidly in the early 1920s (Ch osen
Sotokufu Ch osaka, 1924). Most were low-budget rice and noodle shops or stalls
selling steamed buns, which catered to working-class Koreans and Chinese but also
to some Japanese. Meanwhile, more expensive Chinese restaurants attracted well-to-
do Japanese customers. As a Japanese colony, Taiwan also broadened the dietary
exposure of the Japanese people, as did Manchuria after Japanese occupation in
1931 (Cwiertka, 2007).
According to gourmet writer Kinoshita Kenjir o (1925, p. 210), Tokyo had around
1,000 Chinese restaurants by 1923, compared to 20,000 Japanese and 5,000 Western
restaurants. The greatest increase was in the number of noodle shops. As a result,
Chinese cooking became synonymous with a hearty, affordable meal (Matsuzaki K.,
1995, p. 10). Business became so good that the Association for Chinese Noodle
Makers and Wholesalers [Shina Soba Seiz o Oroshi Kumiai] was formed in 1928
(Kosuge, 1997, p. 154). Meanwhile, it became fashionable for Japanese chefs to tour
China for training and inspiration (Kinoshita, 1925, p. 62). Kinoshita claims that
Chinese food became a regular part of the emperor’s diet after the chief chef of the
Imperial Household visited China. The Imperial Hotel, the epitome of high culture
in early twentieth-century Japan, added Chinese dishes to its menu and Chinese
cooks to its staff (Kinoshita, 1925, p. 62). The popularity of Chinese food increased
further when Shanhaitei (Tokyo) began to offer cooking lessons to the public in 1922
and Kiy oken (Yokohama) introduced take-away sh umai in 1928 (Kosuge, 1997, p.
137). Chinese cookbooks sold well. Yamada Masahira’s Shir oto demo dekiru Shina
ryori (Chinese Cooking for Lay People, 1926) and Shiki no Shina ry ori (Chinese
Cooking for the Four Seasons, 1929) went through many reprints (Okada, 2002,
p. 114).
Japan’s defeat in 1945 provided further impetus to the spread of Chinese cooking.
After Japan surrendered, Chinese food stalls sprang up in the big cities. Taking
advantage of their status as citizens of victorious China, the overseas Chinese
 Chinese Food in Postwar Japanese Gastronomic Writings 67

secured special food rations and illegal food supplies to cook and sell to the Japanese
(Keizai Antei Honbu, 1947). The cooking was basic and the food cheap, filling,
sweet and greasy. During this period, gy oza4 gained a central position in Chinese
cooking. Some claim that it was popularised by Japanese returnees from the
mainland (Shibata Shoten, 1992, preface, no page number). Others give the credit to
Yuraku near Shibuya Station. Run by a Japanese-Chinese couple, it initially
specialised in gy oza but added hog knuckles, fried noodles, stir-fried vegetables and
stew to its repertoire as business grew (Kosuge, 1997, p. 187). Min Min was one of
the best known in this category of low-budget Chinese restaurants. The success of
this chain signalled the entrenchment of Chinese food as an everyday dining
experience.
By the 1960s, Japanese lovers dated in gy oza restaurants in Yokohama
(Sensh ukai, 1963, p. 121). Trains pulling in to Yokohama were served by sh umai
salesgirls in bright red uniforms, who even made it into novels and radio and TV
programs (Sensh ukai, 1963, p. 122). Another milestone was passed in 1961 when
chilli bean curd [m apo dofu] made its debut on NHK’s signature cooking program
Kyo no ry ori (Today’s Dish) (Kosuge, 1997, p. 209). Instant cold noodles [reimen]
appeared in 1961, and instant chilli vermicelli [harusame] went on sale in 1982
(Kosuge, 1997, p. 211). In the same year, the Japanese Association of Chinese Chefs
[Nihon Ch ugoku Ch orishi Kai] was founded (Kosuge, 1997, p. 242).
Even Confucius was implicated in the assimilation of Chinese cooking (Uchida,
1995a; Morisu, 1986). As the Confucian temple Yushima Seid o in Tokyo fell into
disuse after the war, a group of Japanese Sinophiles gathered to restore the place and
revive its cultural programs. These volunteers soon turned their attention to the
recipes in old Chinese books and began to experiment with them. They established a
Research Department for Chinese Cooking in 1965 to recreate traditional dishes and
train young chefs. By the 1990s it had graduated around 200 chefs. Yamanaka
Tokiko, a central figure in this group, has translated Chinese culinary classics into
Japanese. In China there is little connection between Confucius and experimental
cooking. That the two could come together in Japan, however tenuously, is an
example of how the Japanese reconfigured Chinese culture to enrich their own.
The 1978 friendship agreement between Japan and China, following normal-
isation of relations in 1972, released pent-up Japanese fascination with its
neighbour.5 The Chinatowns of Yokohama, Kobe and Nagasaki embarked on
reconstruction and image building. Transforming themselves into gourmet-cum-
ethnic towns, they contributed to, and benefited from, the boom in domestic
gourmet tourism. Restaurateurs hired Hong Kong chefs to create new dishes, while
the food industry endeavoured to broaden the public’s dietary horizons by
introducing new flavours and ingredients. The reception of the chilli bean paste
obanjan is an example of this process. While it had been glossed as ‘‘chilli miso’’ in
t
an NHK cooking program in 1961, it became available under its Chinese name
obanjan (Japanese reading) in supermarkets in the early 1980s. The pickled
t
vegetable z asai went through similar stages of rarity, tentative debut in super-
markets, and subsequent general acceptance at home.
Notwithstanding the spread of Chinese cooking since the 1970s, the public’s
reception of a new dish or style of dining is far from assured. While snacks such as
gy umai and harumaki [spring rolls] had been available since before the war,
oza, sh
68 Timothy Yun Hui Tsu

the Hong Kong style of yamucha [dim sum] has failed to attract a following (Shibata
Shoten, 1992, p. 98). Despite attempts by various promoters, Japanese consumers
have not adopted the habit of spending hours sipping tea and munching on titbits.
And even the playful and irreverent Hong Kong chef Kin Manpuku saw fit to
exclude roast pigeon from the menu of his restaurant in Tokyo (Kin, 1994, p. 161).
Today, a wide spectrum of establishments claims to serve Chinese food, even
though those at opposite ends of the spectrum have little in common in terms of
food, ambience and clientele. Ch o Ky o’s classification of Chinese restaurants
highlights this diversity (1997, p. 9). According to Ch o, expensive restaurants serve
shark’s fin, bird’s nest soup, suckling pig, abalone and Peking duck. Medium-range
eateries offer shrimps in chilli sauce, beef with green peppers, and jellyfish. Lower-
end canteens specialise in chilli bean curd, stir-fried pork liver, noodles, gy
oza and
harumaki. This classification suggests that distinctions between regional cuisines are
not essential (though not irrelevant) to the Japanese adaptation of Chinese food.
One thing that transpires from this historical survey is that, as Chinese food
attains a more permanent position in Japan, it takes on different meanings. The
following analysis demonstrates that while competing and contradictory claims have
been made, there is a high degree of thematic coherence to the writings on Chinese
food, as evidenced by the recurrence of questions about fat, spices, authenticity and
culture. It also points out that such writings tend to turn a discussion of Chinese
food into a definition of Japanese identity.

Fat
Japanese gastronomic writings in general are preoccupied with the question of fat or
oil content. On one hand, high fat content is synonymous with tasty and nutritious
food. On the other, animal fat is anathema to the health conscious. That Chinese

cooking is oily is usually taken for granted. Oma Kijun (1975, p. 137) advises that a
considerate host should provide guests with hot towels, presumably so that they can
wipe their oil-stained mouths. Recalling the low-budget Chinese restaurants in the
early postwar years, Furukawa Minami attributes their success to low prices and
greasy food (Kosuge, 1997, p. 187). A guidebook from the 1960s enthused that the
Cantonese noodles of Yokohama’s Chinatown came in a ‘‘thick and greasy’’ soup
that was ‘‘nutritious’’ (Sensh ukai, 1963, p. 121). Chef Nakajima Yoshinori (1995,
p. 36) goes so far as to say that the liberal use of oil in traditional Chinese cooking
shows its ‘‘scientific rationality’’. Unfortunately, he does not elaborate on the
‘‘science’’ involved.
The value of animal fat as a cheap source of energy and nutrition began to be
eclipsed by its new status as an object of gourmet adoration in the 1970s. This was
partly a result of affluence – which was responsible for one gourmet fad after
another even as an economic bubble grew (Ashkenazi and Jacob, 2003) – but was
first and foremost a reflection of changing ideas of diet and health. For a well-fed
population, fat was no longer desirable except as an indulgence. Food writers
heaped praises on tonp oro or stewed pork belly. Morisu Shir o, editor of Shiki no aji
(Flavours of Four Seasons), relished biting into pork fat so much that he swept aside
health advice to the contrary (Morisu, 1995, p. 93). He even ridiculed those who
resisted the attractions of pork belly, calling them unenlightened people doomed to
 Chinese Food in Postwar Japanese Gastronomic Writings 69

live long but dull lives. The predilection for animal fat manifests itself in a
nationwide quest for the ultimate r amen noodles or, more precisely, the ultimate
broth in which the noodles are served.6 While there are different soup bases, the
perennial favourite is the thick, deep brown ‘‘pork bone flavour’’. The greasy and
strong-flavoured character of this broth is achieved by mixing pork lard with the
essence of pork bones obtained after hours of boiling. For the really discerning fan,
the all-important lard [seabura] must come from the pig’s back, which is believed to
be particularly aromatic. But the craving for thick, oily soup apparently knows no
limits. In 1996, some noodle shops began to add beef fat to the pork soup base
(Nagase, 1996, pp. 58–59). A few have even switched over to a pure beef bone soup
base. This particular innovation suffered an unexpected setback in 2001 when mad
cow disease broke out in the country.
The liberal use of oil is sometimes justified by its presumed effects on other
ingredients in the same dish. It is claimed that oil protects the vitamins in leafy
vegetables when they are heated. Chef Nakajima Yoshinori advises that oil should
be added to the hot water used to boil vegetables (Nakajima, 1995, pp. 36–39). He
explains that this allows the oil to cling to the surfaces of the vegetables and so
prevent the vitamins inside from being destroyed or lost. Another chef gives a more
elaborate justification. K o Ch usei asserts that hot oil rids a vegetable of its
‘‘bitterness’’, fortifies its vitamins, allows the seasoning to seep in, and creates an
unctuous coating (K o, 1981, pp. 57–58). He further maintains that the small amount
of oil added at the last stage of stir-frying can extract excessive oil from the
ingredients, transferring most of the oil to the sauce and leaving the ingredients
largely oil-free.
It is undeniable that anti-grease sentiment has been growing since the 1970s. This
trend is particularly noticeable in expensive restaurants. Keen to tap the market of
grease-averse female customers, these restaurants are eager to project a healthy and
‘‘light’’ image for their food. It would be detrimental to the reputation of a
restaurant if critics were to describe its food as ‘‘swimming in a sea of oil’’ – which
happened in the case of the up-market T otenkaku in Kobe (Mita, 1986, p. 32). The
most common strategy adopted by restaurants is to declare their conversion to
vegetable oil. Ch o Kokyu, who cooks for a Beijing-style restaurant in Tokyo, claims
that Beijing cooking does not use as much lard as other regional cooking. In dishes
where lard was once traditional, he claims to have substituted vegetable oil (Ky oen,
1982, p. 48). The Shanghai chef Chin K oei of Akasaka Sann o Hanten, who
otherwise refuses to adapt his cooking, boasts that he abandoned lard for vegetable
oil as early as the 1960s (Ky oen, 1982, p. 52). Pekin Hanten in Yokohama also claims
to have given up lard for soybean oil (K odansha, 1986, p. 189). Similar claims are
made by Shinjuku’s Setsuen, which specialises in Hunan food, the Cantonese
restaurant Heichinr o in Higashi-Ikebukuro, and the Taiwan-Fujian Restaurant
Shinh orai in Tsukiji (Kodansha, 1986, p. 56, p. 126).
Yet another way to nullify the threat of oiliness is for food critics to proclaim a
dish light, and then heighten the statement’s credibility by professing to be
‘‘surprised’’. Bungei Shunj u’s restaurant guide7 claims that the food at the
Cantonese restaurant Manjuen in Iidabashi is ‘‘surprisingly light’’, making it
suitable for people ‘‘past middle age’’ (Bungei Shunj u, 1977, p. 122). Hosokawa’s
1998 guide to Yokohama’s Chinatown praises the 80 year-old Kash or
o’s food as
70 Timothy Yun Hui Tsu

‘‘light’’ and ‘‘delicate’’ (1998, pp. 12–13), declaring that in the hands of this
restaurant’s cooks, even stewed pork belly manages ‘‘to shed excessive fat’’ and
achieve a ‘‘surprisingly light taste’’. Paradoxical statements work too. A 1986 guide
asserted that the Ginza Beijing restaurant Hagoromo’s Beijing cooking was light
despite the liberal use of lard (K odansha, 1986, p. 40).
For those who remain unswayed by these blandishments, food specialists and
beverage manufacturers offer Chinese tea as an answer.8 Uron  cha [oolong tea] is
recommended for ‘‘dissolving’’ or ‘‘flushing out’’ the oil that has entered the
digestive system (Morisu, 1995, p. 97; Rin, 1996, p. 71; Ky oen, 1982, p. 132), but
other varieties such as puer tea and jasmine tea will do the same trick (Rin, 1996, pp.
177–82). Suntory, a major Japanese beverage maker, markets canned uron cha that
carries the following message: ‘‘This tea is most suitable for consumption after
eating oily food’’. In light of this belief, it is not surprising that food critic Morisu hit
upon the idea of uron chazuke after consuming a large meal in a Chinese restaurant.
He poured hot uron tea onto fried rice to make a bowl of allegedly light and easy-to-
swallow ochazuke (Morisu, 1995, p. 97).9 The restaurant’s owner Sh u Fuki, a
celebrity chef himself, found this hybrid of Japanese and Chinese foodways perfectly
reasonable.
But perhaps the worry over fat and oil is unwarranted. At least that would be the
position of Rin Saibi, a housewife from Taiwan who has taught herself to become a
food writer. Having published the book Ch ugokujin wa naze yasete iru no ka (Why
are Chinese Slim?) in 1987, she produced a sequel with the title Ch uka ry
ori wa
yaseru (Slimming Down with Chinese Food, 1996). According to Rin, eating Chinese
food is the same as dieting. Her position has an attractive, if spurious, logic. Since
the Chinese people she sees in Hong Kong and Taiwan generally seem thin, she
concludes that their slimness must be a result of what they eat. Among the dietary
merits she cites for Chinese food are that the use of vegetable oil improves the
complexion of women, and that oily food is filling and so discourages ‘‘grazing’’,
which she says is the main cause of obesity (Rin, 1996, p. 64, p. 72). In other words,
the oil in Chinese food is not to be dreaded – for it is what keeps women slim and
rosy-cheeked.

Spices and Condiments

Like fat, the merits and demerits of spices and condiments such as chilli and sugar
are subject to much discussion. In the background of this discussion is the widely
held belief that the Japanese are not used to spicy food. The word tanpaku [light] is a
compliment for food that is mild or plain. Hence, it is common practice for
guidebooks to assure readers that the recommended dishes have been ‘‘adapted’’ to
avoid surprising the Japanese palate. The tendency to compromise on spiciness is
believed to be particularly strong in the case of Sichuan cooking, in which the
generous use of chilli allegedly turns away many Japanese customers, especially
women. Sugar is a different story, however. There is a tendency to use too much
sugar,10 and the practice has elicited general condemnation (Takiguchi, 1961, p. 18).
According to Hong Kong chef Kin Manpuku, Chinese cooking in Japan is plain
and lacks complexity (Kin, 1994, p. 124). He notes that cooks in Hong Kong make
use of a variety of spices and condiments to marinate meat, but their counterparts in
 Chinese Food in Postwar Japanese Gastronomic Writings 71

Japan use only one or two kinds. Kin’s observation also applies to the use of chilli.
In a feature on the Sichuan restaurant Bimisai in Nishi-Shinbashi, the writers for
Bungei Shunj u’s restaurant guide refer to the pressure that cooks are under. Noting
that the restaurant serves an appetizer that is not very spicy, they attribute this to the
cook’s concern for the reaction of Japanese customers. Sympathetically, they
observe that Japanese customers sometimes complain about authentic, spicy dishes
(Bungei Shunj u, 1977, p. 120). Food critics do a restaurant a favour if they profess
to be ‘‘surprised’’ by the mildness of the food. A guidebook compliments the
Sichuan restaurant Keirin in Osaka for serving stir-fried crabs in an egg sauce that is
‘‘light’’ and ‘‘soft’’ (Amakara Tech o, 1989, pp. 206–07). This mildness is
‘‘surprising’’, the book explains, as Sichuan food is typically very spicy. The book
then offers the assurance that not every Sichuan dish is hot.
In fact, all genres of Chinese cooking are under pressure to compromise on
spiciness. The writers for Bungei Shunj u’s guidebook are pleased with Shanhaien’s
prawns in chilli sauce, which they consider a mild dish well suited to the Japanese
palate. They go on to cite with approval the chef’s claim that he serves generic
Chinese rather than Shanghai food, even though the restaurant’s name suggests
otherwise. The critics further claim that all kinds of Chinese cooking in Japan are
‘‘generic’’ in the sense that they have been modified to reflect Japanese preferences
(Bungei Shunj u, 1977, pp. 124–25). Whether a restaurant claims to be serving
Shanghai or Sichuan cuisine – at least according to the contributors to Bungei
Shunj u’s guidebook – it must tone down the spiciness of its food, even at the risk of
becoming ‘‘generic’’, if it is to appeal to the public.
Restaurants that seek to appeal to Japanese tastes may err on the side of mildness,
producing nondescript dishes that have little merit. Several restaurants seem to have
fallen into this trap. The authors of a 1986 restaurant guide for Kobe, a city
renowned for its Chinese cuisine, claimed to have noticed a disturbing tendency for
Chinese cooks to substitute sugar for spices. They complained that the prawns in
chilli sauce served by a restaurant in the city’s Chinatown were more sweet than hot,
and criticised another restaurant in the same neighbourhood that served a dish of
stir-fried seafood that was too sweet for their liking (Mita, 1986, p. 154, p. 163; also
p. 115, p. 194). Even the celebrity chef Chin Kenmin, regarded by some as the
pioneer of Sichuan cuisine in Japan, admits to compromising his standards in the
interests of sweetness. By his own assessment the Sichuan dishes he prepares are not
as hot as they should be, and are sweeter than they should be. Even if restaurants
manage to avoid serving food that is too sweet, some shy away from imparting any
taste or flavour whatsoever to their food, with the result that the dishes they serve
are described as either ‘‘vague’’ or ‘‘bland’’ (Mita, 1986, p. 111, p. 120, p. 155,

p. 161). There is also the opposite claim, although it is heard less often. Oma Kijun
maintains that Shanghai food is well liked by Japanese because it uses a lot of soy
sauce and sugar (Oma,  1975, p. 98). Some food authors share this opinion. The
writers for Bungei Shunj u’s restaurant guide note that the dishes at Akasaka’s
Keitokuchin Hanten were once light, but have recently become salty. They attribute
this change to customer demand (Bungei Shunj u, 1977, p. 103).
While many restaurateurs are wary about serving food with a strong flavour, spicy
or not, some add spices to dishes that are not normally spicy in Hong Kong and other
citadels of Chinese cuisine. According to Kin Manpuku, Sichuan influence can be
72 Timothy Yun Hui Tsu

found in many Chinese dishes in Japan (Kin, 1994, p. 125). He claims that in Hong
Kong a dish of sweet and sour prawns is entirely free of chilli, but that in Japan it is
always prepared with the Sichuan-style hot bean paste t obanjan. Likewise, he
observes that pepper is routinely added to fried rice in Japan, a practice unheard of in
Hong Kong. In fact, food critics and chefs voice their support for spicy, Sichuan-style
food almost as often as they praise mild food. They credit chilli with enhancing the
appetite, creating an exquisite sensation in the mouth, purging ‘‘excessive heat’’ from
the system, fortifying the body against cold, and ridding certain ingredients of
undesirable odours. There is a dedicated minority of food lovers in Japan whose
insatiable appetite for the ‘‘super-hot’’ sensation is akin to an addiction, as reflected
in the ‘‘super-hot boom’’ of the late 1980s (Kosuge, 1997, p. 245).
Speculative cultural explanations have been offered to lend intellectual respect-
ability to spicy food. Chin Kenmin maintains that geography holds the key to
Sichuan cooking’s liberal use of chilli (Ky oen, 1982, p. 56). Pointing out that the
province of Sichuan is a landlocked basin, he asserts that all its products, from
plants to animals to people, are infused with a ‘‘mountain odour’’. In his view the
liberal use of chilli and other spices in the region’s cooking purges the human body
of this unpleasant smell by inducing perspiration. A similar explanation, once again
invoking Sichuan’s geography, asserts that spices were originally used to preserve
food in this hard-to-access place (K odansha, 1986, p. 190).
Appealing to the senses is just as important. The most common claim is that the
burning sensation on the tongue improves the appetite (Nakajima, 1995, p. 36). The
stir-fried chicken with chilli served by the Shanghai restaurant Gesuto Hausu in
Minato-ku, Tokyo, provides agreeable stimulation to the diner’s tastebuds (Bungei
Shunj u, 1977, p. 111). And the hot dishes prepared by the celebrity chef Chin
Kenmin of Akasaka Shisen Hanten produce a refreshing feeling in the mouth
(Bungei Shunj u, 1977, p. 103). Then there are restaurants that specialise in strongly
flavoured dishes. The restaurant Misen in Nagoya serves around a hundred different
dishes, each with a distinctive taste and most hot and salty. The strong character of
Misen’s food, reinforced by the brilliantly lit interior, market-like noisiness, and the
hog knuckles and ears on display, is said to be its strongest selling point (Nagase,
1996, pp. 78–79). In sum, spices may be a problem for some but an attraction for
others. Either way, Chinese food is held to be different from Japanese food, and this
seems to be the bottom line.

Culture
Even a preliminary reading of the gastronomic writings shows that Chinese food not
only stimulates Japanese tastebuds but also stirs the Japanese mind, encouraging it to
intuit the foundations of Chinese civilisation. One of the thrills of consuming Chinese
food is thought to be the culture shock that it brings. But for many there is yet a higher,
more abstract level of experience. These consumers claim to discern connections
between Chinese food and culture that can help to explain Japanese uniqueness.
One attraction of Chinese food is its perceived exotic quality. Taken to the
extreme, this requires a gratifying Chinese feast to so violate Japanese sensibilities
that it is barely edible. The Tokugawa playwright Chikamatsu Monzaemon captures
this contrived cultural distance in a satirical scene in Kokusenya kassen (The Battles
 Chinese Food in Postwar Japanese Gastronomic Writings 73

of Coxinga), a fictional account of the exploits of Wat onai, who is loosely modelled
on the seventeenth-century Chinese loyalist Zheng Chenggong.11 Upon being
presented with a whole table of delicacies during her captivity in China, Wat onai’s
Japanese mother exclaims, ‘‘How disagreeable! I don’t like such things at all’’. The
poor woman is presented with, heaven forbid, pork stew, barbecued mutton and
beef-paste cakes. To the bewilderment of her captors, who try their best to please her
(out of respect for her son), she insists on having a musubi [rice ball]. Not
understanding Japanese, the Chinese do not realise that all the distraught woman
wants is a simple rice ball (Keene, 1971, p. 134). The contrast between Chinese
gluttony and Japanese simplicity could not be sharper.
An encounter with the barely edible is prized in contemporary Japan too. Walking
through Chinatown is supposed to be an adventure. One writer claims to see, in
Yokohama’s Chinatown, various parts of a pig that have no place in a Japanese
meal proudly displayed at shopfronts (Osaki,  1976, pp. 200–01). What Yokohama
has, Kobe can match. Marutama Shokud o near Sannomiya offers stewed prime ribs,
Chinese sausages, chimaki [steamed sticky rice balls] and pork knuckles. Gnawing
away at a chewy piece of pork tendon at this restaurant is said to be ‘‘some
experience’’ (Mita, 1986, p. 126).
It is not necessary for the exotic to border on the revolting. Rare and unfamiliar
foodstuffs can be effective in accentuating the distance between Chinese and
Japanese foodways. Miyoshi in Osaka serves a variety of Chinese vegetables and a
rare fish from Heilongjiang on the Sino-Russian border (Amakara Tech o, 1989,
p. 220). Referring to the food at Tokyo Hanten in Ginza, the writers for Bungei
Shunj u’s restaurant guide declare that if one wants ‘‘unfamiliar vegetables’’, one
should go to a Chinese restaurant (Bungei Shunj u, 1977, pp. 122–23). They point out
that young green pea leaves, something not usually eaten in Japan, are available at
this restaurant. The same writers are pleased to find that this restaurant also serves
ogan [winter melon], which they claim is not known to young Japanese. And it is
t
not just the food at this restaurant that is nostalgic. The menu, which contains old-
style Chinese characters, enables these food writers to reminisce wistfully about a
bygone era when the Japanese language contained many more Chinese characters
(Bungei Shunj u, 1977, p. 118).
Nevertheless, too much difference may provoke resistance. Manjuen employs
Hong Kong chefs to reproduce an ‘‘authentic’’ Hong Kong taste. But the manager
laments that Japanese customers tend to avoid unfamiliar dishes (K odansha, 1986,
p. 167). The owner of Tokyo’s Ry uen concurs. He asserts that Japanese have only a
partial appreciation of Chinese food and suggests that they should be adventurous
and try new dishes (Bungei Shunj u, 1977, p. 105). This conservatism can be
frustrating for restaurateurs. The Shanghai restaurant F urin in Roppongi takes
pride in its stir-fried eel. Although it takes the trouble to import live eels from China,
few Japanese order this delicacy for fear that it might be too ‘‘heavy’’. Food critics
and chefs sometimes go to great lengths to downplay the exotic quality of a dish or
cuisine. Praising the food of the Hunan restaurant Setsuen in Shinjuku, writers for
Kodansha’s restaurant guide make the improbable claim that the climate and
geography of Hunan, a landlocked province in central China, are similar to those of
Japan. As a consequence, they assert, Hunan’s food is light and congenial to the
Japanese palate (K odansha, 1986, p. 126).
74 Timothy Yun Hui Tsu

The exotic nature of Chinese foodways is to be enjoyed at the discursive level too. It
is commonly believed that Chinese foodways encapsulate principles that differentiate
Chinese and Japanese culture. The popular comic series Oishinbo (Brau, 2004) tells a
story that drives home the point that cooking is not an epiphenomenon but embodies
the fundamentals of a culture (Kariya and Hanasaki, 1991, pp. 3–28). O,  a meek
Chinese apprentice cook, has eloped with the daughter of his wealthy Chinese
employer. He is given the chance to reconcile with his father-in-law by passing a
cooking test. He prepares course after course of delicacies for the old man, and
manages well until he is told to make the most ordinary dish – fried rice. He fails to clear
this last hurdle because his fried rice is mushy and sticky rather than dry and crispy. The
Japanese protagonist Yamaoka intervenes. Observing that the young cook addresses
his wife as ‘‘Miss’’ [oj
osama] and his mother-in-law as ‘‘Madam’’ [okusama], Yamaoka
deduces that O  lacks assertiveness and self-respect. He is therefore unable to control a
strong fire to make the perfect fried rice. After taking a few cues from Yamaoka, O 
learns to toss the rice confidently over a furious flame and produces the desired taste.
After another test, the satisfied father-in-law agrees to help the young couple open their
own restaurant. The story ends with an overjoyed O  calling his wife by the manly term
‘‘omae’’ or ‘‘Hey, you!’’. The moral of the story? That food is culture and culture is
food. The perceptive Yamaoka could read the personality of O  through his cooking,
and by correcting his cooking, he changed O’s  personality. Writ large, the presumed
link between food and culture, cooking and history, cuisine and people opens up a wide
space for cultural-gastronomic speculation.
One aspect of Chinese foodways that is often remarked upon is the apparent lack
of table manners. Oma  (1975, p. 98) states that Chinese table manners are easy-
going. She claims that the practice of seating diners at a round table, so that they can
help themselves from common dishes of food, facilitates pleasant conversation

(Oma, 1975, p. 133). Similarly, Nakajima (1995, p. 39) finds this way of sharing food
‘‘homely’’: diners can help themselves to what they want and are brought closer

through sharing. Osaki (1976, pp. 200–01) pictures a family seated at a round table
and asserts that the relaxed and interactive arrangement can help overcome the
breakdown in communication between parents and children that allegedly plagues
modern families. The Japanese chef of a Chinese restaurant in Yokohama offers
different advice. He urges his compatriots to emulate the gluttonous abandon of the
Chinese, who do not think twice about using their hands to grab their food, and do
not hesitate to soil the dining table in their single-minded engagement with ‘‘wild’’
foodstuffs (Hosokawa, 1998, p. 43). The gourmet magazine Ky oen pronounces:
‘‘There are no [table] manners for Chinese food’’ (Ky oen, 1982, pp. 137–43). The
only rule, it continues, is ‘‘to eat and eat’’.
Chinese food can send Japanese of a more speculative bent on a veritable wild-
goose chase. Bungei Shunj u’s guidebook (1977, p. 108) notes that Tsukiji’s Shin-
H orai serves a vermicelli that is so lightly flavoured that it calls to mind Confucius’
dictum that ‘‘the friendship between gentlemen is plain like water’’. After taking
Mandarin lessons, the gourmet writer Uchida Nobuko (1995b, p. 162) concludes
that the Japanese preference for light food and the Chinese desire to devour
‘‘anything with legs but chairs’’ are reflected in the two languages. She points out
that she has to make use of every part of her mouth and twist her tongue to utter
complicated Chinese sounds, whereas she only needs to use the tip of her tongue
 Chinese Food in Postwar Japanese Gastronomic Writings 75

when speaking Japanese. That Japanese accents are flat compared to Chinese
reflects, for Uchida, the difference between the two cuisines. Obviously dissatisfied
with the limited range of Japanese flavours and sounds, she resolves to become more
‘‘gluttonous’’ in her future dietary and linguistic endeavours.
More established cultural figures such as Saionji Kinkazu (trustee of the Japan-
China Cultural Association and the grandson of Meiji statesman Saionji Kinmochi),
Ky u Eikan (writer and businessman; see Aoyama, 2003), and It o Masashi (journalist
for Kyodo News) offer more daring insights in a roundtable discussion organised by
the gourmet magazine Ky oen (Ky oen, 1982, pp. 126–32; the remainder of this
paragraph refers to this roundtable discussion). It o asserts that nomadic food is
inferior, while settled agricultural peoples like the Chinese have sophisticated
cuisines. The reason, he suggests, is that farming is boring, so farmers improve their
culinary skills to make life more interesting. Kyu singles out Cantonese cooking for
praise. He attributes its superiority to the fact that many Cantonese, after making
money in foreign countries, returned home rich men and became fastidious in their
food preferences. The Hong Kong style of Cantonese food is the best, he also points
out, because Hong Kong people have no faith in the future and spend every penny
on food. He declares that there are really just two culinary systems in the world –
Chinese and Japanese. Saionji concurs, adding that Western cooking is merely a
branch of Chinese cooking. Ky u adds that at the time when the Chinese capital
Chang’an had paved roads Parisians were walking in mud. To this Saionji quips that
the English were still living in trees back then! Chinese food certainly feeds the
imagination.
Interestingly, a foray into Chinese food and culture often leads straight back to
Japan. At the end of its special issue on Chinese cuisine, the editor of Ky oen reflects
on the ingredients that went into the making of the volume – Man-Kan zenseki [a
grand banquet of Manchurian and Chinese cuisines], markets in Hong Kong, and
suckling pigs and bird nests – and finds himself reassured as a Japanese (Ky oen,
1982, p. 212). Citing Kyoto’s maple-leaf tempura and pickled cherry blossoms, he
asserts that they represent a unique Japanese way of enjoying seasonal beauty that
transcends the dichotomy of the edible and inedible. ‘‘To eat the seemingly inedible’’
is a cardinal principle of Chinese culture, he claims, and it is this principle that he
sees as separating the Chinese from the Japanese (Ky oen, 1982, p. 212). In his view,
the gastronomic desire for the ‘‘inedible’’ is rooted in the harsh experience of the
Chinese people. The history of China, he points out, consists of repeated struggles in
which people were confronted with the stark choice of ‘‘either eating others or being
eaten themselves’’ (Ky oen, 1982, p. 212). The Japanese never endured such
hardships, and they simply leave ‘‘inedible’’ foodstuffs alone. ‘‘How peaceful indeed
is Japan!’’ concludes this satiated editor (Kyoen, 1982, p. 212).

Authenticity and Beyond

Having come so far, it should not surprise us to find that ‘‘authenticity’’ is at once a
crucial and ambiguous concept in the gastronomic literature. Authentic Chinese food
commands a premium, but at the same time there is a persistent desire among cooks
and restaurateurs to break out of the mould of ‘‘Chineseness’’, usually through fusion
with Japanese and Western foodways.
76 Timothy Yun Hui Tsu

Authenticity is regarded as highly desirable but hard to achieve. Restaurants

bolster their claims to authenticity by adopting a physical appearance that is
‘‘Chinese’’. Yokaro in Yokohama is an 8-storey building topped with a pavilion
painted in garish primary colours (Nagase, 1996, p. 88). Nearby Seik oen has red flags
outside and a Chinese-style decor (Morisu, 1995, p. 91). At the same time, service
personnel should display markers of Chineseness. The sh umai girls of Yokohama in
the 1960s wore the figure-hugging qipao dress. Portrayed in the mass media as cute
and innocent, they became desirable brides in the eyes of parents with marriageable
sons (Sensh ukai, 1963, pp. 122–23). Olfactory and audio signals also help to
strengthen claims to authenticity. The writers for K odansha’s 1986 restaurant guide
note approvingly that the Taiwanese restaurant Reiky o in Shibuya emits the smell
and noise characteristic of a Chinese restaurant (K odansha, 1986, p. 108).
But authenticity is thought to be hard to achieve or maintain. Restaurateur Takei
Kenji had trouble finding chefs who were willing to follow faithfully the Hong Kong
style of cooking: most are only too happy to accommodate Japanese preferences.
Takei has to repeatedly remind his chefs not to compromise (Nagase, 1999, p. 185).
But the chefs who compromise are being realistic. Many Japanese, food writers
admit, are unable to appreciate authentic Chinese food, preferring the Japanised
version instead (Nagase, 1999, p. 185). A shortage of competent cooks is another
factor. It has been observed that new restaurants often hire chefs from Hong Kong
to establish their reputation. But before long the taste of the food changes because
the expensive Hong Kong chefs have left (Bungei Shunj u, 1977, p. 101). According
to some food writers, the longer a Chinese restaurant has been in business, the more
Japanised its food (Bungei Shunj u, 1977, p. 100).
While unreflective and opportunistic compromise is frowned upon, there is much
interest in innovative fusion. Some food writers recommend adding the feel of
Japanese cooking to Chinese cuisine or preparing Chinese dishes in Japanese style
(Kodansha, 1986, p. 167). It is also desirable to use local ingredients. Nan’un in
Shibuya procures handmade bean curd from a neighbourhood bean curd maker
(Nagase, 1996, pp. 62–63), presumably to distinguish itself from other restaurants
that serve bean curd of unknown provenance. Successful fusion of Japanese and
Chinese cooking can win high praise. The authors of Bungei Shunj u’s guidebooks
are so satisfied with what they were served at the Cantonese restaurant Sh odoten
that they compare it with a Japanese woman in kimono (Bungei Shunj u, 1977,
p. 116). And fusion can extend beyond food. One writer points to presentation and
interior design as two areas in which Japanese and Chinese traditions can
complement each other (Matsuno, 1986). In Kyoto, Jin’ya occupies a wooden
building, which gives it the feel of a Japanese tea house. Guests take off their shoes at
the entrance and are escorted by kimono-clad waitresses. Both the food and the
tableware are ‘‘Japanised’’ (Nagase, 1996, pp. 60–61).
Fusion can also take place between Chinese and Western foodways. The owners
of K oraku restaurant in Tokyo refitted its interior to add a bar, and brought in
tables and chairs usually found in a cafe. In the rear they added a Japanese room for
banquets (Nagase, 1996, p. 96). A Chinese restaurant in Roppongi simply dispenses
with Chinese motifs. First-time customers, it is said, cannot tell from its appearance
that Chinese food is served on the premises. Its chef disavows the label ch uka ry
ori
[Chinese cooking], preferring to characterise his cooking as ‘‘oriental’’ [t oyo]
 Chinese Food in Postwar Japanese Gastronomic Writings 77

(Kodansha, 1986, p. 95). Futoku in Tokyo opts for a ‘‘light ethnic’’ decor.
Downplaying Chinese motifs, it has chosen a pale pink colour to project a ‘‘clean
and modern’’ image (Nagase, 1996, p. 84). Kai o in Osaka takes a similar approach.
Targeting female customers, it creates an open, spacious and clean feeling using a lot
of glass panels (Nagase, 1996, pp. 86–87). China Garden in Tezukayama, Osaka,
boasts a sunlit garden that creates a clean, bright image. The food is a hybrid of
Chinese and Western presented on white Western-style plates. The chef characterises
his dishes as originating in China but blossoming in Japan (Amakara Tech o, 1989,
p. 232). Choko, also in Osaka, has tried to change the oily image of Chinese food,
which reduces its appeal to men. It has ‘‘Westernised’’ its food by using such new
ingredients as olives and lobsters, and by imitating the presentation of French
cuisine. The restaurant now projects a ‘‘refreshing’’ image and has experienced an
increase in popularity with female patrons (Nagase, 1996, pp. 74–75). Maison de
Shuke Yu Long has a French name and the decor of a French restaurant (Nagase,
1996, p. 92). Chef’s Gallery in Shibuya serves Chinese food in courses in the French
manner. There is an example of fusion with Italian too. A restaurant in Nishi-Azabu
boasts Mediterranean decor and uses Italian tableware, although it claims to offer
authentic Chinese food and its cooks are from Hong Kong (Shibata Shoten, 1992,
pp. 103–04).
There are other, minor ways of undermining the stereotypes of Chinese food. A
how-to book recommends serving wine to create a chic image to appeal to female
customers (Nagase, 1999, pp. 171–77). It admits that matching wine and Chinese
food is difficult, but claims that since Chinese cooking has become less oily and
spicy, a range of wines is now suitable. It recommends that restaurants combine
serving wine with a ‘‘calm’’ atmosphere and high-quality service. Celebrity chef Chin
Kenmin warns that wine does not go well with the traditional untidy, noisy and
disorderly image of Chinese restaurants. He further cautions that care must be
exercised when matching wine with spicy dishes or food containing sesame oil (Chin,
2001, p. 37). Christmas, as a time of conspicuous consumption, has attracted the
attention of innovative Chinese restaurateurs. Shin-Pekin at the Yamanoue Hotel in
Tokyo has developed a Chinese Christmas dinner, hoping to change the common
perception that links Christmas with Western food (Nagase, 1996, p. 123). Kai o in
Osaka offers a Christmas dinner with a ‘‘Western’’ ambience where the tables are
decorated with candles and the lights are dimmed (Nagase, 1996, p. 124).

Conclusion
In the article ‘The Functions of China in Tokugawa Thought’, Harootunian (1980)
observes that Tokugawa views of China reveal more about the Japanese than they
do about the Chinese. We may rephrase this observation and apply it to the writings
on Chinese food. To wit, such writings say as much about Japanese culture as they
do about Chinese food in Japan. Chinese food in this literature serves as a foil for
articulating Japanese foodways and identity. The quest of Japanese gourmets for the
exotic and authentic is accompanied and checked by a longing for the familiar and
native. The enthusiastic sampling of new flavours, ingredients and dishes leads, as
we have seen, to a gastronomic ‘‘return to Japan’’ similar to the move many
Japanese intellectuals made from internationalism to Japanism (Sugimoto, 1999).
78 Timothy Yun Hui Tsu

This nativist reorientation is poignantly expressed in the epilogue of Ky oen. After
taking up the challenge of suckling pig and bear paw, the editor found peace of mind
in deep-fried maple leaves and pickled cherry blossoms from the historical and
cultural heartland of his country.
The writings examined here thus contribute to a discourse on Chinese foodways
that also celebrates Japanese uniqueness. Chinese food may be oily or plain, spicy or
mild, authentic or adapted, but it is always contrasted to Japanese food and shown
to be not as subtle or refined. This gastronomic nihonjinron not only reinforces other
versions of Japanese uniqueness but can also have economic and political
implications. In the 1980s, some Chinese eateries adopted the marketing ploy of
‘‘denying their Chineseness’’ (Nagase, 1996, p. 123) by serving wine or converting to
Japanese or Western decor. This ploy takes on new meaning in the early twenty-first
century, as Japan adjusts its relations with a ‘‘rising China’’. After it transpired in
January 2008 that Chinese-made frozen gy oza on sale in Japan were contaminated,
Chinese restaurants in Yokohama and Kobe hastily reassured customers that their
food was ‘‘free of Chinese ingredients’’ (Anon., 2008a). Suddenly, the much-
championed food at these places became the ‘‘taste of fear’’ [senritsu no aji] (Anon.,
2008b). In the meantime, the hitherto lacklustre ‘‘Dumpling Town’’ of Utsunomiya,
a dull satellite city of Tokyo, proudly asserted that its business was going strong, as
‘‘everybody knew that its dumplings were made in Japan’’ (Anon., 2008a).
The opposition between ‘‘Chinese’’ and ‘‘Japanese’’ gy oza goes deeper than the
gyoza skin, for it ties in with broader trends of thinking and practice. In particular, it
resonates with an emerging consensus among government, businesses and private
citizens that there is a need for the Japanese people to return to local dishes made
with local produce. This is the theme of the ‘Citizens’ Forum on Food’ (Shoku o
Kangaeru Kokumin F oramu), the second annual meeting of which opened at the
height of the gy oza-poisoning scare.12 This forum aims to promote a ‘‘Japanese-style
diet’’ using native ingredients to prepare meals suited to the ‘‘Japanese nature and
culture’’, thereby helping Japan to become self-sufficient in food. Its official sponsors
include the Prime Minister’s Office, the Ministry of Education and Science, the
Ministry of Welfare and Labor, and the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries. The
coordinator of the 2008 meeting was a former NHK journalist with close ties to the
government. In his speech he singled out China as a threat to Japan’s food supply.13
After mentioning the unfolding food scandal, he moved on to the greater political
and economic impact on Japan of China’s increasing appetite for food imports. As
current Japanese discourses on gastronomy, cultural identity and national security
converge (Takeda, 2008), the question of Chinese versus Japanese food is no longer
a matter of taste, or even cultural identity; rather, it is a question of clashing
nationalisms and struggle for survival. One thing seems certain: while Chinese food
will remain popular, its meaning is bound to become more contentious as Japan
repositions itself vis-à-vis a looming China.

Acknowledgments
I would like to thank Tomoko Aoyama, David Wilmshurst, Lynne Nakano and the
anonymous reviewers for their critical but constructive comments. In particular, Dr
Aoyama showed great patience and support in helping with the revisions.
 Chinese Food in Postwar Japanese Gastronomic Writings 79

Notes
1. To delineate a manageable scope, I have concentrated on writings on Chinese food in Japan.
This excludes writings from Hong Kong, Taiwan, mainland China and Chinese communities
outside Japan. Much of the writing of food writers such as Nanj o Takenori, Ky u Eikan and
Chin Shunshin also falls outside the scope of this study. Moreover, I have steered clear of
literary works. Interested readers are referred to the studies by Tomoko Aoyama (2003; 2008).
2. Chinese consistently outnumbered Westerners in the treaty ports. For example, between 1872
and 1925 Chinese made up over 60 per cent of the foreign population in Yokohama (Yokohama
Kaik o Shiry
okan, 1994, p. 11, p. 14).
3. Steamed meatballs made from a mix of pork or fish, vegetables and starch.
4. Dumplings originated in China but are also popular in Japan.
5. Japan and China maintained a low level of trade and cultural exchange in the 1950s and 1960s. It
was only after 1978 that people and goods could move in large volumes between the two
countries (Tagawa, 1983). Of course, there has always been Japanese interest in China, including
its food. Soon after the war, Ky u Eikan established himself as a food critic by writing on fine
Chinese food, which was inaccessible to most Japanese at the time (Aoyama, 2003).
6. Many would consider r amen a Japanese dish. Equally as many would probably admit that it is
rooted in Chinese cooking (Okada, 2002). It remains a key item on the menu of low-end Chinese
eateries.
7. The publication information page in the book gives Bungei Shunj u as the editor. The dustcover,
however, bears the names of four contributors: Kano Chikao (journalist), Kohagura Hok o (film
critic), Tsunoda Akira (journalist) and T ohata Asako (nutritionist, cooking instructor).
8. The reputed health benefits of Chinese tea were remarked upon before the 1980s, but consumer
interest surged in the 1990s thanks to the promotional activities of beverage companies and food
writers (Huang, 2003).
9. Ochazuke is normally made using Japanese tea. Chinese generally do not pour tea onto rice.
10. Yanagida Kunio (1931) noticed a similar tendency in Japanese cooking.
11. This play is full of puns, beginning with the title and the name of the protagonist (see
Introduction in Keene, 1971).
12. http://www.e-shokuseikatsu.com, accessed 23 May 2008.
13. http://www.e-shokuseikatsu.com/kokuminkaigi/index.html, accessed 23 May 2008.

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