Stomach peko peko? Dig into these Japanese food words

By YUKARI SAKAMOTO
Special to The Japan Times

One of the most enjoyable aspects of Japanese cuisine is how it stimulates the senses: exquisite presentation, delicious taste, enticing aroma, distinctive texture and unique sound.

The last one stands out most in comparison with Western food culture. While the sounds involved in the consumption of food are minimized in the West, for fear of embarrassment, they are celebrated in Japan — consider the noisy sound made when Japanese slurp noodles: tsuru tsuru (ツルツル).

The Japanese language is filled with words that imitate the sounds we make when eating. I learned many of them several years ago as a sommelier at Nihonbashi's Takashimaya department store, where colleagues would use them when talking to customers. I too began using this specialized vocabulary to sell wine. A very drinkable low-alcohol wine is one you can gabu gabu nomu (ガブガブ飲む, drink heartily) — reproducing the sound of gulping it. One that is a bit fizzy is shuwa shuwa (シュワシュワ), while a sweet, cloying dessert wine is beta beta(ベタベタ) — from the word bettari (べったり, sticky).

The sound an empty stomach makes (peko peko [from the verb hekomu, へこむ, meaning caved in]) gives us a way to say "I'm hungry" (Onaka ga peko peko, お腹がペコペコ). When thirsty, you can say, Nodo ga kara kara (喉がカラカラ, My throat is dry). The popular game character Pacman got his name in similar fashion: His mouth opens and closes rapidly (paku paku, パクパク) as he scurries across the screen.

Kitchens are filled with sounds such as koto koto (コトコト, a bubbling pot) and ton ton (トントン) — the rhythmic whack of the knife as cabbage is sliced on the cutting board for salad. Jyū jyū (ジュージュー) is the sound of the fat from wagyū (和牛) beef crackling on a hot grill. In summer, you may hear shari shari (シャリシャリ) — ice being shaved for kakigōri (かき氷, flavored shaved ice).

Not only sounds but also sensations have given rise to many Japanese food words. A steaming bowl of ramen is atsu atsu (アツアツ), from the word atsui (熱い, hot). Something cooked to just the right temperature, such as rice just out of the cooker, is hoka hoka (ホカホカ) — from the sensation of having steam touch your face. The feeling you get on your mouth gives rise to hoku hoku (ホクホク) as the description for the steamy, dense texture of yakiimo (焼き芋, hot baked sweet potatoes) or steaming kabocha (南瓜) pumpkin. And piri piri (ピリピリ) describes the sting in your mouth if you put too much wasabi on your sushi.

Staying with the tactile, tsubu tsubu (ツブツブ) describes the bitty feel of pulp in freshly squeezed orange juice. Toro (トロ), the fatty part of tuna, is known to have got its name from a customer of a sushi shop in Nihonbashi who described the melt-in-your-mouth texture as torōtto suru (とろーっとする); fatty pork belly (角煮, kakuni) that falls apart in your mouth is also toro toro. Pounded rice cake is mochi mochi (モチモチ, sticky), while udon noodles are often shiko shiko (シコシコ, chewy). Gomadōfu (胡麻豆腐, sesame tofu) that wiggles and jiggles is puru puru (プルプル). Rice that is dry, such as the jasmine variety, is pasa pasa (パサパサ), and fried rice that is moist but loose enough to be eaten with a spoon is para para (パラパラ).

Some words convey both tactile and aural senses. Saku saku captures the crispy feeling as well as the sound of the light breaded coating of a delicate tempura or tonkatsu (豚カツ, pork cutlet). Pari pari achieves the same with regard to thin potato chips or crisp sheets of nori. Meanwhile, look and touch are evoked with the description of slippery, sticky natto (納豆, fermented soybean) as neba neba (ネバネバ) and fluffy marshmallow as fuwa fuwa (フワフワ).

While all this may get your appetite going, there are contrasting words to sum up bad food experiences too. For example, if you forget to take the sand out of clams, jyari jyari (ジャリジャリ) describes the grit. A box of cornflakes left open on the counter on a humid day becomes funya funya (フニャフニャ).

Sitting at your local sushi counter, ask the chef for his osusume (お薦め, recommendation). He may tell you the shrimp (海老, ebi) is puri puri, with a nice resistance. And if you get to try fresh abalone (鮑, awabi), it is kori kori (コリコリ), chewy and slightly crunchy.

Next time you watch a television program about food, listen carefully. Chances are you will hear these words. Put them into practice. They will help connect you with those who make your food. And when you are full after a big meal, pat your stomach and say "pan pan desu" (パンパンです, full).

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Japan resident, get set for your date with dentistry

By DAVID HICKEY
Staff writer

They were four simple words that I never wanted to hear: "Ha wo warimasu, ne (歯を割りますね, I'm going to split your tooth, OK?)."




That day was the third installment in the gnasher (not slasher) trilogy "My Date with the Dentist." Parts one and two were short, painless affairs with a local haisha (歯医者, dentist), who dispatched my oyashirazu (親知らず, wisdom teeth) to history with a minimum of fuss. Once the kyokubu masui (局部麻酔, local anaesthetic) had set in, it only took my sensei (先生, meaning teacher, but also used to refer to any authority figure) a few minutes to crowbar the upper-right and upper-left third molars from their sockets. Not much blood spilled there.

But the third visit left an entirely different taste in the mouth. My usual dentist had already warned that the extraction of my last wisdom tooth — the lower-right molar — would be taihen (大変, an ordeal). He had examined the rentogen (レントゲン, X-ray), seen it was yoko (横, sideways) and sensed kiken (危険, danger). Better to have had it extracted when it had first pushed through my gums in my early 20s, he said. In any case, he washed his sheathed hands of the task, wrote me a shōkaijyō (紹介状, letter of introduction) and sent me rubbing my jaw to a major hospital in Tokyo with an entire floor dedicated to oral hygiene. This place, he assured me, would be better equipped if my haguki (歯茎, gums) refused to stop bleeding or the dentists damaged a shinkei (神経, nerve).

The new dentist was a baby-faced chap who we'll call Wakahisa in this article. He had graduated only a couple of years earlier. Long in the ha (歯, tooth) he wasn't. But he had a calming chairside manner, and I hoped his youthfulness meant he was some kind of prodigy of the pearly whites who had struck upon a revolutionary technique that inflicted no pain on patients during molar removal.

On a piece of paper, Wakahisa scrawled a few helpful words in both Japanese and English. They read: kansen (感染, infection); kusuri no fukusayō (薬の副作用, side effects — which I might have from the painkillers, anti-infection tablets and anti-inflammation pills I'd soon be taking); and, most alarmingly, mahi (麻痺, parathesia, where the nerve is damaged, sometimes causing long-term numbness in the mouth). Having no other option, I signed the form agreeing to the procedure.

A week later I was back in the chair, squinting under the harsh beam of the examination light.

"Ugai wo shitekudasai (うがいをしてください, Please gargle)," Wakahisa said, pointing to a cup of lukewarm water, then, "Taoshimasu, ne (倒しますね, I'm going to lower [the chair])." And the final preliminary: "Kuchi wo ō kiku akete kudasai (口を大きく開けてください, Please open [your mouth] wide)."

Once the anaesthetic had numbed my mouth, Wakahisa methodically set about carving up the inside of the back of my gob, slicing open the gum and removing the bone that hid the impacted canine. Every few moments brought a fresh twist of the knife.

"Tsukareru toki hidari te wo agete kudasai (疲れる時左手を上げてください, Raise your left hand if you get tired)," Wakahisa said, so I did, sitting upright to cough up the crimson river pooling in my mouth. The red splodge, some of it at least, landed in the washlet. Shards of bone winked back at me.

Wakahisa tossed aside the tissue connecting tooth to bone and gave a few pulls with some sort of grappling instrument I was too scared to look at. My entire cranium rocked with each heave. The tooth wouldn't budge. So he started drilling. Actually, I think he used a minichainsaw. The whiff of burning from the friction smelled like napalm.

More than two hours I was in that chair. There are worse agonies in this world, I imagine — giving birth, waterboarding, listening to a Mika Nakashima album. But I didn't just lose a tooth that day, I lost a part of myself.

He got it out in the end, of course. For all the trouble it caused, the tooth looked surprisingly small, but then it had been mangled into three sorry-looking chunks. Wakahisa pointed out the dark, inflamed tissue that had been causing me pain. Part three of "My Date with the Dentist" was over. Tears, I'm not ashamed to say, welled in my eyes.

When it comes to wisdom teeth, kyo dekiru koto wo ashita ni nobasuna (今日できることを明日に延ばすな, Never put off till tomorrow what you can do today). Take my advice and get on the phone. Here are four more simple words: Yoyaku wo onegaishitain desu (予約をお願いしたいんです, I'd like to make an appointment.)

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What the nation's girl sports managers offer Japan

By KAORI SHOJI

One of the best-selling books of the past month is called "Moshi Kokoyakyuno Jyoshi Manejyaga Drucker no Management wo Yondara"(「もし高校野球の女子マネージャーがドラッカーのマネージメントを読んだら」"If the Girl Manager of a High School Baseball Team Read Drucker's 'The Practice of Management'") by Natsumi Iwasaki. The novel follows Minami, manager of her high school baseball team, as she uses Peter Drucker's famous tome on management to guide the team to success. The book sheds light not just on the issue of management but also the profound world of high school girl managers.




Many able-bodied and intelligent jyoshi (女子, teenage girls or a woman with the energy and spirit of a teenage girl) dream at least once in their lives of being a manējyā (マネージャー manager), preferably of a baseball, basketball or soccer club (the sweatier the better). But having made it through the gates, they're often appalled at the incredible effort and workload involved.

A good friend of mine was the manager of the danshi kendō-bu (男子剣道部, boys' kendo club) in high school, and within six months she had developed a jyūen hage 十円はげ, a bald spot the size of a ¥10 coin) on the side of her head and had undergone a mōchō no shujyutsu (盲腸の手術, appendectomy) due to sheer, undiluted stress.

My friend was functioning on about four hours of sleep, worked for the team through weekends and holidays, and was trying to keep up with homework as well. It got to the point where classmates chipped in to help by taking home piles of dougi (胴衣, kendo wear) to wash. The next day they would haul the bundle to some tournament out in Yamanashi Prefecture or another distant location.

As soon as she was out of the hospital, my friend was back at her managerial duties. Under her care and support, the kendo team matured from a jyakushō (弱小, weak and small) local team to a top contender with 40 members. The guys took the credit, but we knew that if she hadn't been there for them all the way, the outcome would have been different. Such is the power of a good jyoshimane (女子マネ, abbreviation for girl manager) — personally, I think Drucker has little to teach in terms of people skills, dedication or decision-making.

Going through the physical and mental wringer during high school prepares the jyoshimane for the trials and hardships that will assail her later in life. She's a cut above mere jyoshi athletes doing bukatsu (部活, extracurricular sports activities). At the end of the day, the athletes get to put the blood, sweat and tears behind them. But the work of a jyoshimane never ends.

While her first task is always dealing with mountains of laundry (the team's uniforms, socks and, in many cases, underwear) that she washes and dries on the line behind the school building day after day, she's also expected to recruit new talent, deal with complaints, look after injuries, keep tabs on individual behavior (smoking, drinking and brawls will immediately disqualify a team from a competition), console guys who didn't make regulā (レギュラー, regular team-member slots) and encourage those who did. She's also the liaison between the coach and team, is called into important strategic meetings and assembles practice menus.

Additionally, she attends every game, standing by with a huge cooler of water bottles and energy drinks. During summer training, she's expected to dish out food (especially breakfast) and clean up afterward. Multitasking doesn't begin to describe what a jyoshimane goes through; she's the mother, girlfriend, therapist, doctor, boss and handmaid for a team of sweltering males.

The jyoshimane can reap the rewards later; the experience becomes a valuable personal asset (many companies will spot that on a resume applying for a job) and by the time she graduates, there's very little about male psychology that she doesn't know — which really saves time and worry later on when she is on the dating scene.

On the other hand, many jyoshimane suffer from moetsuki shōkōgun (燃え尽き症候群, burnout syndrome). Life after three frenetic years being Superwoman often looks flat, boring and devoid of challenges. My friend from high school says everything after her years as a jyoshimane seemed too easy. She was constantly asking the world, "koredake? (これだけ, is that all?)" and chomping at the bit, so to speak. She's now a lawyer, mother of three and has her eye on a possible political career. It's a good thing. What the guys of Nagatacho (永田町, Japan's political nerve center and district where most of the ministries are located) really need is a jyoshimane to set them straight.

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