Funawa Ankodama – 舟和 あんこ玉

This is more of a summary than a review, but these are just so pretty and photogenic that I really wanted to have them on the blog, if only as eye candy. Based in Asakusa, Tokyo, Funawa is a well established producer of traditional Japanese confections such as sweet potato youkan and the ankodama (bean paste balls) pictured here. I’ve never had the chance to visit the shop myself but can always look forward to receiving Funawa sweets as a souvenir of my husband’s business trips to the capital.

This typical selection box contains nine spherical pieces each coated in a gleaming layer of kanten, a thick gelatinous substance made from agar agar. Effectively separated and protected by the plastic tray, the surfaces of the truffle-sized orbs are so lustrous and smooth that they look more like perspex objets d’art than edibles. The four corner pieces are all simple azuki flavour while the five that form the central cross are (top to bottom, left to right) strawberry, matcha, mikan (mandarin), shiroan (white bean paste) and coffee.

Usually I find that when it comes to introducing additional flavours into anko, the sweet, nutty azuki tends to dominate almost totally, yet Funawa blends the bean flavour perfectly with the other essences: the strawberry is fruity, the green tea lightly herbal, the mikan has good citrus notes and the coffee has a gorgeous heady roasted aroma.

The thin skin of kanten is reminiscent of the aspic used in savoury terrines, though firmer and with a hint of sugariness to it, while the inner anko ball itself is perfectly formed, with no air bubbles or graininess to detract from the rich, smooth consistency (the blemishes visible in the pictured cross-section were made by the knife I sliced them with) Soft yet very dense, one or two pieces can prove unexpectedly filling, and besides you won’t want them to disappear too quickly, as they’re almost as satisfying to look at as to consume.

If you’re in Tokyo and looking a for a sweet treat that people from all over the country are stopping in to buy, then Funawa’s the place to go. Just be sure to drop in early, as, unsurprisingly, the ankodama tend to sell out.

Kamakuragoro Hangetsu Matcha – 鎌倉五郎 半月 抹茶風味

I don’t often get the chance to venture down south of chilly Hokkaido but luckily I have a jet-setting group of acquaintances who are constantly hopping across the sea to Japan’s main island of Honshuu, and usually don’t return empty-handed. It was one such friend who recently brought me some Hangetsu senbei (crackers), a popular souvenir item produced by Kamakura-based confectioner Kamakuragoro.

Hangetsu means ‘half moon’, which, as you can see, is reflected in the semicircular shape of this sweet cracker. Japanese folklore has it that a rabbit lives on the moon, hence the charming little bunny illustrations and the design in relief on the biscuit which also depicts a rabbit (sadly mine got broken in transit).

The senbei, which is matcha-flavoured – although azuki and black sesame versions are also available – has a rich, warm aroma of cinnamon infused with herbal green tea. Despite several days having passed between receiving this gift  and eating it, when I opened the wrapper it was still fresh and incredibly crisp. The dark golden colour, hint of burnt caramel flavour, and brittle texture reminds me strongly of the Pompadour fan wafers that you often find atop ice cream sundaes, although I’d venture to say that Hangetsu is even lighter and crisper.

While the senbei has a robust matcha flavour, the taste of the fluffy cream filling is much more watered-down and has a delicate, light sweetness like a pinch of powdered sugar. Some green tea notes are present, but more reminiscent of a milky matcha latte than an unadulterated cup of the real stuff.

Hangetsu being a traditional-style confection, for me the center was unexpected, as I felt that Kamakuragoro could have opted for a higher concentration of matcha in the filling, which would have produced a more recognisable earthy green tea hue, instead of the pale pastel colour you see here – I’m certain that the cracker itself would be sufficiently sweet to support the grassy flavour. However, the creamy paste is spread thinly and the airiness compliments the light crispness of the crackers nicely, making for a delicious snack overall, even if it is a little on the sugary side.

I was slightly disappointed to discover that a fair amount of artificial ingredients go into making these, but if that’s what it takes to preserve the excellent degree of freshness then I’m willing to overlook it and would definitely eat Hangetsu again.

7/10

Kamakuragoro Hangetsu (Matcha)  150kcal/pc

Hakodate Amanatto Irodori – はこだて甘納豆 彩

When it comes to the spreading popularity of traditional Japanese confectionery abroad, I feel that amanatto has been somewhat neglected. Admittedly, the idea of sweet ‘natto’ – a dish of fermented soybeans considered by many Westerners to be something of an acquired taste – is rather off-putting, and even without that knowledge, if someone were to ask you whether you’d like some sweetened peas and kidney beans for dessert, you probably wouldn’t be too eager to take them up on the offer. However, despite the slightly misleading name, this treat is not so different from more familiar confections, such as sugar plums or marrons glaces.

Amanatto simply consists of various pulses preserved in granulated sugar. Typical selections often include a mixture of smallish beans and peas but may also contain a few larger beans. I bought my ‘Irodori’ assortment of kidney beans, green peas, black soy beans, broad beans and white ‘hanamame’ from Hakodate Amanatto, but amanatto is available in all supermarkets and most 100 yen shops too.

With its pretty jewel colours and glittering frosting of sugar, this amanatto is sure to set your sweet-tooth tingling. The coarse saccarine coating creates a thin, crunchy shell around the bean, which has a firm and fudgey texture, becoming a little powdery as you chew it, in the case of the kidney beans and hanamame. They are slightly denser than ordinary boiled beans due to some of the moisture being drawn out by the sugar.

The hanamame and kidney beans have no initial smell, but once you bite into a piece there is a light, savoury scent like a butter bean. The refined sweetness of the sugar dominates but the bean flavour comes through gradually, though it is only subtle.

The peas are much moister, and the thin skin houses a minute drop of mushy green puree. Being so tiny, there is a high ratio of sugar to legume, yet the distinctive pea flavour is still detectable. As peas are naturally a little sweet, the vegetable taste is not unpleasant or strange.

The large black beans have the most interesting texture. The degree of moistness varies with each piece but the least dry resemble dates, with thicker and tougher skins than the other beans, which provide a little resistance and chewiness, and moist, almost fruity flesh inside. True to their dark colour they have just a hint of bitterness, so are the least sweet of the selection.

I find the dense, chewy texture of amanatto very moreish yet also satisfyingly filling, and, although sugary, they are not too sickly, thanks to the savoury background notes. The best feature of the Irodori selection was the diversity of textures in the pack; it was a pleasant surprise to come across some moister morsels, as some amanatto consists of only firmer, drier pieces.

Hakodate Amantto sells 100g bags of individual varieties, or you can pick and mix and purchase by the gram, and they even offer tasting selections, so there is something to suit everybody. Well worth a visit.

8/10

Kyoto Hanawarabe Candy – 京都のお土産：花わらべ

I’ve seen these colourful treats in various traditional sweet shops in Japan, but never been tempted enough to buy them, as boiled sweets rank fairly low among my candy preferences. However, I was given a little assortment by a friend and was excited to finally try them.

Unfortunately my sub-par photography doesn’t do them justice, but they are like beautiful, lustrous glass beads with the same semi-translucent qualities as some precious stones; it seems a shame to eat them.

In retrospect, maybe it would have been better if I hadn’t. Given the bright, popping colours of the candies, I assumed that they would have intense, tangy, fruity flavours to match – I had especially high hopes for the pineapple and orange. I suppose I should have done my research. These are decorative sweets and it’s all about the appearance: flavour is secondary.

Despite the different colours and designs, I couldn’t detect any variation in the flavour of these sweets. They had that odd quality particular to starch syrup products where sweetness becomes a sensation rather than a taste – an almost tooth-aching sensation with no interesting flavours or aromas to relieve it. While the glassy outer surface melts as smoothly as ice, the inner candy is grainier and finely perforated, so it contains a little air. It is very similar in both texture and flavour to the sticks of rock that you get at British seaside towns – a confection that I never liked even as a child.

Perhaps I would have judged these less harshly if I’d known what to expect. As far as appearance is concerned there’s no denying that they look gorgeous, and presented in a pretty box they would make an excellent gift. Unfortunately, once they’ve been consumed and you can no longer admire them, the lingering memory of taste and texture is what forms your impression, and I was disappointed.  I always feel guilty if I give a very low rating, but it’s purely my opinion, so I’ll be honest and award these:

4/10

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