The last time I was in Kyoto, I found myself running down a mountain as if my life depended on it. In my later confessions, I sometimes omit the fact that the mountain was none other than Mount Hiei, home of the Enryaku-ji temple and its troop of “marathon monks.” You see, on this mountain, monks believe that traveling long distances is a sure-fire path to spiritual enlightenment—more specifically, one thousand marathons completed without interruption, done while wearing traditional attire and sandals, followed by a seven-day fast, and then a final hike up a flight of stairs to a fountain.
I was running in the opposite direction—away from nirvana and towards a gas station noodle shop I saw on our bus ride up. For some reason, fleeing in the opposite direction from monks really sends the wrong message (I’m not evil!). In my defense, however, I had spent the week restricted to a diet of tofu, white rice and pickles, eaten in complete silence. And this was Japan, the place where a tourist’s life can be changed by a simple bowl of noodles.
To be honest, the bowl of beef udon at the gas station restaurant was alright. It wasn’t the dedicated handiwork of some undiscovered master. Think of it as pretty much on par with what you’d get at any Hong Kong food court or airport lounge. And it didn’t help that I was struck by some sort of karmic punishment when I tripped over a rock on my way back up the mountain, leaving me with a weird hobble for the rest of the trip.
Recently, I went back to Kyoto and gave it another chance. This second time around, things were different. Nanzenji Junsei, a tofu specialist, came highly recommended for its signature dish, yudofu, which sounds more exotic than its actual description: tofu cubes boiled in a broth, served with spring onions and light soy sauce. Oh, and served with rice and pickles.
The meal, minus the silent uncomfortable eating in a room full of monks, was identical to the one I had in the monastery. But this time, perhaps because I had my mind set on it, and it wasn’t the only option—the severity of the meal disappeared altogether. Flavors were vibrant. And even in a country obsessed with spice, butter and pork, the subtler voices on the plate rang clear. For the first time in a long time, I could pay attention to the taste of the rice itself—the soft texture, the faint underlying sweetness. If you drink wine all day, you’d probably be surprised at just how delicious plain ole water really is.
In the Korean movie “Sympathy for Lady Vengeance,” the opening scene features the protagonist being offered a solid block of tofu upon her release from prison. A symbol of purity and a better life to come. She refused it and went on a high-octane streak of cold-hearted vengeance before dunking her face into a white cake shaped like tofu for her final absolution.