Otabe Namayatsuhashi – おたべ 生八つ橋

If you’ve ever been to Kyoto then you’ve probably seen namayatsuhashi, as nearly every souvenir shop displays row after row of boxes of the neatly packed triangular sweets, in every colour of the rainbow and more besides. A thin square of elastic dough, made using rice flour and sugar, folded over a glob of an (bean paste), namayatsuhashi would seem to belong to the mochi family of Japanese confectionery, yet in fact if you were to bake the outer skin you would get a kind of senbei, a crisp, crunchy rice cracker. The ‘nama’ refers to their being raw, and the cooked version, which is arch-shaped and traditionally flavoured of cinnamon, is known simply as yatsuhashi.

Namayatsuhashi are available in practically every flavour in the Japanese confectioner’s repertoire, from sweet potato to black sesame, persimmon to pumpkin, as well as western-inspired creations such as coffee and chocolate. What I’m reviewing today, however, are the more pedestrian green tea and red bean versions, an assortment of which I received recently from a kind neighbour.

Specifically, the flavours, produced by Otabe, are matcha and a second type of green tea called Uji Gyokuro. The two varieties are packaged in separate boxes of five pieces each, in the usual overlapping design (already ate two before photographing…)

The brand name is embossed into the underside of the plastic trays, so that it leaves a clear imprint on the soft skins of the namayatsuhashi, as you can see. The surfaces of both are dusted finely with kinako, a savoury soybean powder the colour of sawdust, which keeps them from sticking and also provides a pleasant toasty aroma.

Matcha consists of a green tea-flavoured dough filled with sweetened mashed red beans. The darkish mossy green hue reminds me of yomogi, a Japanese plant often used to colour breads and mochi, yet the flavour, although faint, is certainly matcha. The tsubuan center is slightly fruity and has a jammy consistency. Grains of unmashed beans with their shiny, smooth skins still intact glisten appealingly like little gems in the magenta-coloured paste. The contrast of gooey, sweet filling and powdery, chewy dough is highly satisfying.

The skins of the Uji Gyokuro are not spiced with the traditional cinnamon, and have no discernible flavour, other than a mild, somewhat bland sugariness and the savoury note of the kinako dusting. Being more finely pureed than the paste in the matcha, the translucent pale green filling is smooth and provides the same taste-progression that I’ve experienced in green tea candies: an initial honey-like sweetness followed by a lingering yet agreeable herbal aftertaste.

The dough of both the matcha and uji gyokuro is gorgeously soft and chewy but not at all stodgy, although I found that after a few days it began to dry out and lose its flavour, even before reaching the use-by date (though to be fair I didn’t store them in an airtight container).

When I first ate these, on the day I was given them, I found them absolutely delicious; perfectly fresh and soft. I’ve since eaten them twice more but found myself a little less satisfied each time. With namayatsuhashi texture is just as important as flavour and once the dough begins to dry out they’re almost not worth keeping. At the peak of freshness I would have given them a 7 or 8 out of 10 but on reflection I feel that for me these didn’t really surpass the level of ‘pleasant’, and thus I award them:

6/10

Minamoto Kitchoan Kurikinton – 源 吉兆庵 栗きんとん

I’ve mentioned kurikinton, the little sand-coloured sugary chestnut parcels, before, in my review of the Look chocolates based on the sweet. This time I’ve got the real thing, made by the Tokyo-based company Minamoto Kitchoan and presented in a simple yet elegant bamboo box wrapped in a paper sleeve.

Each piece is about the size of a large grape and, similar to Chinese dumplings, is marked by small creases where it has been pressed into shape. They do not give off much scent but sniffing them you can detect a faint syrupy aroma of vanilla and boiled chestnut.

The consistency resembles a stiff cookie dough, but without the slight oiliness that would be produced by the butter. While not sticky to the touch, it quickly forms a delightfully sticky paste in the mouth, with a little graininess due to the flecks of dark brown chestnut skin and fragments of pale golden flesh. They have the thick richness of a good quality peanut butter but, as I stated before, are not at all oily and may even crumble a little when you bite into them.

Consisting simply of chestnuts, which are naturally sweet, and sugar, kurikinton are of course rather saccharine. However, the earthy and mild chestnut flavour acts well to moderate the concentrated sucre of refined sugar so the sweetness is not cloying, though combined with the dense texture you wouldn’t have to eat many of these before they began to get sickly.

Although these little parcels look small, they feel fairly heavy in the hand and one can be quite filling. Therefore I think it’s best to eat them alone, as opposed to after a meal, so that you can appreciate them in all their dense, sweet glory, without finding them stodgy. Being a popular seasonal treat, kurikinton are produced by many major Japanese confectionery companies, and while the basic recipe should be universal, size, weight and sweetness may vary, so it’s worth shopping around to find the brand that best suits your tastes.

NB: Kurikinton also refers to a lumpy, sticky yellow paste of mashed chestnuts and sugar eaten as part of New Year’s cuisine, so don’t be confused if you come across this.

Minamoto Kitchoan Kurikinton (4 pcs)

7/10