Making Fresh Soba

[nakji]

One of the few things that I enjoy about my current job is that I spend a lot of time with the retired citizens of Japan. They're fun to talk to, and since I came to Japan to learn more about its traditional culture, they're the perfect people to grill about the best way to make a certain pickle, or the best place to buy daikon.

In the early afternoon, my school has classes targeted at retired people, and I have a good time sitting with them and chatting about Japanese food. They get a kick out of the fact that I try to cook Japanese food, and they often bring little treats in for me - like a nasu tsukemono, or homemade miso. The other week, I was called out to an unfamiliar school on my day off to work for another sick teacher. Normally, I'd be quite grumpy about this since - well, nobody likes to work on their day off, do they? But I met someone who rescued the day for me.

One of the students, Mr. Ota, is passionate about soba. He makes soba in his free time, and teaches soba-making lessons once a month at the community hall. What luck! My co-worker, who is also the sort of person who enjoys large-scale cooking projects, and who had been to the lesson once before, agreed to come with me to the next session

The lessons are taught at a community centre near Ofuna station, in Kamakura. I met my friend, Rob, at the station, equipped with a plastic container for my soba, a tea-towel to cover my head, and a crappy apron I'd gotten at the Daiso 100-yen shop (profoundly ugly - they should have paid me to buy it, really.)

Rob warned me that making soba is quite a workout for the arms, and the last time he went, he felt as if he'd been to the gym. He said he'd been sweating buckets, so we stopped at a 7/11 along the way to stock up on green tea and water.

When we arrived, the community centre was set up with two tables, so that students could rotate through the stages - mixing, rolling, and cutting. The equipment reminded me of drafting class in Junior High - there were wooden tables, brushes, rulers, and a sliding knife in a case. I cast my eyes around for a t-square; but there was none. I'd later learn that the teacher was so good, he didn't need no stinkin' t-square.

The centre set-up: (Apologies for the utilitarian nature of these photos. There was low light, and I only had my pocket camera - instead of my husband and his photo equipment, like I usually do)

You can see some of the tools in the lower photo. There are three rolling pins, which you'll see used later. There's also another pin, not pictured, made of oak, and a bit heavier than the ones you see here - used for evening out areas. The brown plastic sheet is used to protect the noodles as you cut.

(...to be continued)

[melonpan]

you must post a photo of you in your apron!

i am also interested, by the way, in the soba too. looking forward to the next installment!

[Peter the eater]

I'll be watching too.

I bought soba for the first time a few weeks ago -- from the Halifax store at Queen & Victoria. Everyone needs more buckwheat in their life.

[nakji]

you must post a photo of you in your apron!

What with the silliness of the tea-towel that was on my head, I may have to decline. You will see the apron, however.

As with many things in Japan, the afternoon's program was well-organized. We would first watch a demonstration by one of the teachers, then we would take it in turns every fifteen minutes to start making our own.

First, Ota-sensei showed me a buckwheat plant, and then two small containers: the un-hulled buckwheat (black) and the hulled buckwheat, before grinding. Then, the other sensei (and I didn't catch his name - but you can see his name tag in the picture - anyone?) started his demonstration. As with most things in life, an expert always makes it look so much easier than it really is.

First, he measured the flour. When I touched it later, I was surprised how silky it felt, like silica sand. He mixed buckwheat flour and wheat flour in an 80/20 ratio - why was lost in translation, but I imagine the buckwheat needs some gluten from wheat flour.

He sifted it to remove any remaining hulls.

Then he added water. The water, was surprisingly, measured by weight. I apologize, since my limited Japanese prevented me from asking why. Sensei did mention that the total amount of water eventually added would vary with the humidity of the day, and the "heat" of the cook's hands. Rob said that when he had made it previously in August, it was quite humid. He also mentions that he though that most of the liquid in his noodles probably came from sweat, because of the heat. Mmm, salty soba. At any rate, water should be 40% of the volume of the flour - so 1 kg of flour would need 400g of water.

The water is added in halves in a circular motion. (So: first 200g, then 100 g, then 50 g....) Then he began to mix in a circular motion using only his fingertips. The practicality of the red bowl became apparent at this stage, since he could see clearly if flour was sticking to the bottom and force it off with his fingers. As time went on, and it started to look like panko breadcrumbs, he added more water and continued rolling and fluffing until it started to look like small firm lumps - like a rolled cookie dough. Or "brains", which I wrote down, no doubt because of the gray colour of the dough. Note to self: stop watching CSI before bed. When it got into larger balls, he started to used the whole of his hand to bring it together. The mixing in this manner took about 15 minutes of constant motion.

Panko:

Brains:

At this point, the teacher told us that at the Matsumoto festival in Nagano, they made enough soba to feed 400 people a day, which is a lot of noodles, no matter how you cut them.

When the dough had absorbed enough water to stick together to his satisfaction, he started to knead it like a bread dough, folding it over itself several times. Then he rolled it into a ball shape, turning with one hand, and pressing with the side of his other hand, to force any air out, and rolled it into a ball. He called this the "kiku momi" - the chrysanthemum shape. It looked like a large char siu bao, with a flower-like top.

We ooohed and aaahed.

Then he pressed down on it, saying goodbye to the flower. It took the shape of a butternut squash as he rolled it around the bowl, and then after about five minutes, he effortlessly patted it into smooth disc.

I knew I would completely fail at this when it was my turn. I have a bad history with dough.

[Hiroyuki]

(and I didn't catch his name - but you can see his name tag in the picture - anyone?) started his demonstration.

I'm really not sure, the letters are hardly legible, but I think it is

武田弘

Takeda Hiroshi

I may be wrong. Could you provide a better photo if his name is important to you?

He mixed buckwheat flour and wheat flour in an 80/20 ratio - why was lost in translation, but I imagine the buckwheat needs some gluten from wheat flour.

80/20 ratio soba (ni-hachi soba in Japanese) is quite popular. Juuwari (100%) soba is very difficult to make because of the lack of gluten in the soba.

[Temple]

Wow, that looks like so much fun .

I got a general question about making fresh soba, and this looks to be a good a place as any to ask. For soba do you use kansui (鹹水), the alkaline solution that gives noodles elasticity and texture, like in many other noodles? I know, Okinawa soba uses it, but Okinawa soba has roots closer to Chinese noodles and is eaten differently from soba. In my attempts at making udon and soba I've always kept it out, but I've always thought that it might be better to add it in. Any insight?

[melonpan]

i have a little cheap book and one of the "tips" they use is to stick the dough in a ziplock type bag and use your feet!

[Hiroyuki]

I'm not nakji, but soba and udon use just clear water, not kansui.

I know that some types of udon such as sanuki are often made by stomping on the dough, but I don't think that soba is made that way. It is said that the best soba makers are females, who have weaker hands.

[Temple]

I'm not nakji, but soba and udon use just clear water, not kansui.

I know that some types of udon such as sanuki are often made by stomping on the dough, but I don't think that soba is made that way.  It is said that the best soba makers are females, who have weaker hands.

←

Its interesting, I know the stomping on the dough and the use of kansui is to bring out the koshi (texture/elasticity) in the noodles. I always assumed that the reason kansui wasn't used more in traditional Japanese noodles was because of geographical and historical reasons; since inland locations that didn't have immediate access to the ocean and had to to rely on agricultural sources for sustenance, and hence a history of noodles, didn't have access to kansui in Japan until relatively recently. All the recipes I've looked at only used water, so I know you're right, and I've never used kansui personally in soba or udon, but I've always wondered the logic of it.

But perhaps I'm mistaken in the level of koshi that is ideal for soba. 'Weaker hands' and less gluten for elasticity may produce better soba.

[nakji]

I got a general question about making fresh soba, and this looks to be a good a place as any to ask. For soba do you use kansui (鹹水), the alkaline solution that gives noodles elasticity and texture, like in many other noodles?

I don't know - but I'll ask next time. We just used plain water.

i have a little cheap book and one of the "tips" they use is to stick the dough in a ziplock type bag and use your feet!

Um, maybe next time.

It is said that the best soba makers are females, who have weaker hands.

It's possible - my co-worker got a lot of grief for being "strong" with the noodles.

Step 3 - Rolling

After he cleared away the bowl and the dough rested for a few minutes, he was ready to roll.

He rolled it out to a thickness of around 5 mm. Then he shaped it into a square by rotating it and rolling it at opposite sides, to stretch it out and square it off.

He used flour as a marker to help him know where the middle and sides were. Note how little flour is actually on the table.

Then he rolled it up on one of his pins.

This itself was rolled around 5-10 times using a circular motion with his hands - alternating the pressure along the pin from inside to out.

Then, he unrolled one side from the pin to the halfway point, and started to roll it out to lengthen it on that side, using another pin.

Ideally, it should roll out perfectly straight. In reality, it may need a little correction on one side with the pin. He had another, heavier oak pin on the side to use for detail work at this stage. When I took my turn, I was able to roll it out almost entirely straight on one side. He said that the way someone rolls soba shows their character- if they roll straight, then they have a good character! This made me feel inordinately proud.

Detail work:

Eventually, it should be as thin as a straw.