在東京品嘗藝術(shù)品級(jí)別的天婦羅

　　在東京品嘗藝術(shù)品級(jí)別的天婦羅

　　Last year at a counter in a small restaurant here, I ate tempura that seemed elevated to an art form, like the finest sushi.

　　去年在這里一個(gè)小飯館的吧臺(tái)前，我吃到了藝術(shù)級(jí)的天婦羅，就像最高檔的壽司一樣精美。

　　For more than two hours, piece by delicious piece it came, an omakase, or chef’s-choice menu. A skewer of ginkgo nuts, shiso leaves sandwiching a shrimp purée, a white-fleshed fish called flat head, some anchovies, asparagus, lotus root, abalone, oysters, mushrooms with tiny shrimp tucked inside.

　　兩個(gè)多小時(shí)的時(shí)間里，廚師發(fā)辦(omakase，指日本料理中由客人指定價(jià)格區(qū)間，廚師全權(quán)選擇菜譜的方式——譯注)菜單上的美味一道接一道地上桌。白果烤串、蝦肉泥紫蘇卷，竹莢魚有著白色的魚肉，還有鳳尾魚、蘆筍、蓮藕、鮑魚、牡蠣和內(nèi)藏小蝦的蘑菇。

　　It was expensive — $125 a person — but oh so memorable. And it made me wonder: Why are tempura bars in the United States a rarity?

　　這里費(fèi)用高昂，要收125美元一位，但卻非常令人難忘。我不覺深思：美國的天婦羅吧臺(tái)為什么這么少呢?

　　The chef Nobu Matsuhisa sighed when I put the question to him and said that when he first opened his restaurant Matsuhisa in Los Angeles, he had a tempura bar with eight seats. “It was not a success,” he said. “People didn’t want to eat fried food the whole meal.”

　　聽了這個(gè)問題，大廚松久信幸(Nobu Matsuhisa)不禁長(zhǎng)嘆一聲，他說，松久餐廳剛在洛杉磯開張之時(shí)，有一個(gè)只有八個(gè)位子的天婦羅吧臺(tái)。“它并不成功，”他說。“人們不想整頓飯都吃油炸食品。”

　　Perhaps not in Los Angeles, but what about New York, where $100 fried-chicken dinners sell out in advance? Or elsewhere in the land of KFC? Mr. Matsuhisa said that it was difficult to get the proper low-gluten flour here and that the kind of sesame oil in the blend used for tempura in Japan is very expensive.

　　在洛杉磯或許是這樣，但在紐約呢?在這里，100美元的炸雞大餐都能預(yù)先銷售一空。在這個(gè)肯德基之國的其他地方又如何呢?松久先生說，在美國很難弄到合適的低筋面粉，在日本用來做天婦羅的芝麻油在這里也格外昂貴。

　　Fine tempura is not a dish for the home cook. At its best, it sizzles in oil that is monitored constantly for temperature. Each piece is served as soon as it’s fried, making it impossible for the cook to join the party.

　　優(yōu)質(zhì)天婦羅并不是在家里就能隨便做好的食物。最好的天婦羅應(yīng)當(dāng)在保持恒溫的油鍋中咝咝作響。應(yīng)該炸好一塊就趕緊上桌，所以沒法用來當(dāng)做派對(duì)食品。

　　But entrepreneurial chefs could take a page from Shinei Kunugiyama, the chef and owner of Ten-Shin in central Tokyo, where I had that memorable meal. As in other tempura restaurants, there was a counter with no more than six to eight seats. The chef stood behind the counter with a big pot of oil bubbling in front of him, shielded by a hood, usually copper. A bowl of simple flour, water and egg batter sat on one side, and a cornucopia of ingredients, cut and trimmed, was on the other.

　　但是有進(jìn)取心的大廚們可以向樟山真榮(Shinei Kunugiyama)學(xué)習(xí)，他是東京市中心“天真”(Ten-Shin)飯館的大廚兼店長(zhǎng)，我曾在那里享受過難忘的一餐。和其他天婦羅飯館一樣，這里的天婦羅柜臺(tái)只有六到八個(gè)位子，大廚站在柜臺(tái)后面，面前是沸騰的大油鍋，周圍有篷子擋著，通常是用銅做的。 油鍋一側(cè)放著一碗簡(jiǎn)單的蛋糊，另一側(cè)放著大堆切好擺好的豐盛食材。

　　Mr. Kunugiyama used long, thin metal chopsticks to dip each bite-size piece of seafood or vegetable in batter, then let the excess drip off and dropped the ingredient into the oil. In less than a minute, when it turned golden, he posed it briefly on a stone slab with a paper liner, and then transferred it to your dish, perhaps an oblong of slate, porcelain or handmade pottery. An assistant changed the oil every 30 minutes or so, and the chef constantly skimmed it for stray bits of batter.

　　樟山先生用細(xì)長(zhǎng)的金屬筷子夾起切成小塊，可以一口吃下的海鮮或蔬菜，在蛋糊中蘸一下，然后抖落多余的蛋糊，把食材放進(jìn)油鍋。不到一分鐘，它就變得色澤金黃。他把它在一個(gè)帶紙墊的石盤里放置片刻，之后盛到你的長(zhǎng)方形碟子里——可能是石碟或磁碟，又或許是手工制作的陶碟。一位助理每隔30分鐘左右就換一次油，廚師還要不停撇去油上的蛋糊殘?jiān)?/p>

　　Nothing was greasy. The textures and flavors ranged widely. In front of you were several dipping sauces, salt, a dish of shredded daikon and a little lime juice. The chef told you which to use with the piece he had just presented. Like the best sushi chefs, he bantered affably with his guests, who eagerly waited, like baby birds, for the next tidbit.

　　這些天婦羅一點(diǎn)也不油膩。質(zhì)感和口味十分豐富。擺在你面前的還有好幾種蘸醬、鹽、一碟白蘿卜絲和一點(diǎn)檸檬汁。大廚在上菜時(shí)會(huì)告訴你哪種食材該用哪種調(diào)料。和最好的壽司大廚一樣，他對(duì)顧客非常親切，而顧客們也像剛出殼的小鳥一樣，眼巴巴地期待著下一口美味。