Shop owner pours 'flour, water, love' into udon

By Michael Zielenziger
Knight Ridder News Service

TOKYO — In this anonymous city of 12 million people, only a handful of true artisans remain — men like Masao Ikeda, who rise from their futons early each morning to nourish Japan's soul.

They are the men who gather at Tsukiji, the world's largest fish market, in the chill dampness before dawn to inspect the gills of the finest fatty tuna, favored for sashimi platters. They are the tempura experts who patiently hand-select the vegetables and shrimp they will use for their dinner sets, always finding ways to refine their special batter.

Then there is Ikeda, a tall, unpretentious man with the shiny eyes and wide, contented smile of a craftsman utterly pleased with his lot. His job isn't really about making money, he says, but to produce the most compelling "udon," the thick, wheat flour noodles, redolent of the nation's rural past, that Japanese slurp steaming hot at lunchtime from large ceramic bowls heavy with vegetables and broth.

At a time when a long, staggering recession and years of political gridlock have sapped much of the nation's inner strength, a lunchtime pilgrimage to Ikeda's tiny storefront on a small back street in Shinjuku ward is a bracing reminder of the qualities that made Japan an envy of the world. His pride, dedication, loving attention to detail and refusal to skimp on the integrity of the product help his customers conjure a less-troubled time.

"His heart is in his food," said regular customer Kiyoko Motohashi, who like most of the regulars at the Sanuki-ya restaurant eats three or four lunches a week at the 22-seat storefront. "I feel some bit of nostalgia every time I take a bowl of his udon."

Ikeda, 53, says he puts "flour, water and love" into his noodles. Or, as the lovingly hand-painted sign he hung adjacent to his tiny kitchen puts it, "I put my soul into every noodle."

Ikeda "is the throwback to the original craftsman," or "shokunin," said James Udesky, the Chicago-born author of "The Book of Soba" (Kodansha) and a longtime protege of the udon master. "He's just an artist who uses the best possible ingredients and loves the food he makes."

By chance one day, Udesky wandered by the narrow side street where the old restaurant stood and got a glimpse of Ikeda through the front window, rolling out dough. Udesky wound up spending four years apprenticing in Ikeda's tiny kitchen to master udon-making. "He hasn't changed a wink in his whole life," Udesky said. "He's just a guy who is completely in love with his craft."

Passersby watch him from a little corner window kneading, rolling and cutting his noodles.

Using water, bonito flakes, vegetables and fish stock (and some ingredients he won't disclose), Ikeda spends about 90 minutes working on the broth. Then he crafts the noodles. First he spends an hour or more kneading the dough in a tray with his stocking feet.

Then he kneads it a second time, using a wooden roller, swaying rhythmically, as if singing to himself, shifting from the balls of his feet to his heels and back again, a spiritual encounter one regular customer calls Ikeda's "noodle dance."

Finally, Ikeda rolls out his dough on a long, wooden board, from which he slices the thick noodles, chopping expertly with a specially crafted knife that resembles a wooden-handled cleaver. In his new restaurant, Ikeda usually works through more than 50 pounds of flour during a busy lunch. Except for the old-fashioned mixer he uses to blend the dough, he uses no machines in the process.

Ikeda apprenticed for five years in another shop to learn the subtleties of the craft before opening his store 22 years ago.

His single-minded devotion to noodles remains on display.

"Sure, I get tired," Ikeda said, as his wife, Urako, who works as his main waitress, phoned in the vegetable order for a day's delivery.

"I work from 6 or so in the morning until 10 at night.

But customers actually come to pay me for my labor," he said, a bit of wonderment catching his voice. "And the best part is to see them so happy after they finish a bowl.

"Many men my age are killing themselves, right? But I have so much fun crafting my udon. It's not like I run a convenience store to sell some machine-made products. I make products that make my customers so happy.

"Yes, I'm a noodle man. A noodle man! Every bowl, every noodle, I put my soul into it," Ikeda said, a joyful smile filling the room.

And then he got up, to prepare the dough for dinner.