The Tale of Nikogori
At our home in Tsukuda, negi-maguro nabe (green onion and tuna hot pot) often appeared on the table during winter.
The fatty parts of the tuna, close to the belly, were diced into cubes and simmered together with green onions. Since toro (fatty tuna) spoils quickly, that was probably why we always cooked it. The akami (leaner red meat) was neatly lined up on the side of the pot.
My mother’s older sister and her husband were both drinkers—true downtown folks, just like in a picture. My uncle never had a steady job; he would make something, sell it, and move on to the next thing. My aunt was an ukiyo-e (woodblock print) printer. The two of them lived as boarders on the first floor of our house, but honestly, they carried themselves with such confidence that it was hard to tell whether they or my mother was the head of the household.
After my father passed away, my mother worked as a hostess at a club in Ginza. Looking back, she must have been in her early thirties at the time. Even as a child, I remember thinking she was beautiful—perhaps someone like Kuga Yoshiko.
But at night, she wasn’t home. The house became just me and my aunt and uncle.
We got a television in the living room/tea room around the time of the Crown Prince’s wedding, which was in Showa 33 (1958). The chabudai (low dining table) was always set up in that room, and dinner was always the three of us.
Most of the food looked like snacks for drinking, and many dishes were pulled from the dish rack or the icebox rather than freshly prepared. Small portions of various side dishes would be arranged on the chabudai, sometimes appearing for two or three days in a row. To this day, I think that’s why I still have a taste for drinking snacks.
That chabudai often saw negi-maguro nabe in the winter. We didn’t buy tuna in blocks—we bought half a fish. My uncle roughly divided it up, and my aunt prepared the lean red meat as sashimi, while the fatty winter tuna went into the hot pot.
After finishing whatever work he had, my uncle would plop down in front of the TV, drinking sake from a beer glass. Before long, the hot pot would appear. Thick-cut green onions lined the bottom of the pot, and the broth was flavored with soy sauce and mirin. The pot simmered on a gas burner set atop the chabudai, bubbling away.
Once it was ready, my aunt would bring out thick, 2cm-cut chunks of fatty tuna from the kitchen and add them to the pot. After just a minute or two, she would scoop them out—they’d toughen if overcooked, so she watched closely for just the right moment, when the color began to change. Using holding chopsticks, she lifted them out and placed them in small bowls.
“Here you go.”
It was unbelievably delicious.
My mother was strictly a American food person, so we never had meals like this when she was home.
Before long, the hot pot’s ranks swelled—shungiku (chrysanthemum greens) and enoki mushrooms joined the fray, followed by thick slices of firm tofu, seared on one side. And that wasn’t the end. At the very last stage, tuna sinew and bloodline meat were added, turning the broth rich and gelatinous.
“Tomorrow, we’ll have nikogori (meat jelly),” my aunt would say with satisfaction.
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