Going with the Grain

This time of year in Japan, sake drinking becomes a national pursuit. As the ubiquitous cherry blossoms briefly turn the country pink, clusters of friends and relatives converge to claim squares of picnic space beneath the trees. They admire the blooms, sing songs and devour delicacies, but mostly they get uproariously drunk on cup after cup of sake.

Like most Japanese, I grew up around sake. The clear rice liquor—a fermented product somewhat similar to wine—infuses many important holidays and traditions here, not to mention poetry and cuisine. My father, an American who has lived in Japan for four decades, drinks it hot every night with dinner. My hometown, Kobe, produces nearly a third of the industry's yield. My mother's side of the family is even in the sake business. Still, until recently I never cared much for the stuff. Its strong smell, fiery aftertaste and old-fashioned image seemed about as alluring as my grandfather's hair tonic.

Many young people in Japan feel as I did, which is why the sake industry is struggling. Beer is by far the favored drink, accounting for half of domestic sales of alcoholic drinks. Sake makes up just 9%, down from 17% a decade ago. Active sake breweries, or kura, have dwindled to about 1,200, from 3,500 or so in 1970. It would seem that despite a passionate marriage that historians date back to 3 B.C., the love between Japan and sake is fading.

But there is still a spark. Like kimonos and Godzilla, sake is too much ingrained in the culture to be entirely forgotten. Major sakemakers are targeting new markets, such as young women, with innovative products and sales pitches. A change in Japan's tax laws has encouraged small and midsize kura to produce more profitable, premium sake, a move that has ignited the current fad for jizake, or local sake. And kura big and small see potential abroad, where a sake boom has stepped up demand. Despite its troubles—or perhaps because of them—the industry is producing its best sake ever.

Suigei, my family's sake, brewed in the southern city of Kochi, embodies the trend. Like many brands, its name evokes local flavor: Suigei was the pseudonym of a sake-loving, Edo-era lord and means "drunken whale." Though production has not increased much in its kura, built in 1872, Suigei has nevertheless increased its revenues 30% over the past decade by concentrating on quality sake. Shigeji Ishimoto, the brewery head, says top-grade daiginjo and ginjo sake account for 75% of Suigei's $6.3 million in sales, up from almost nothing when my grandfather bought it in 1968. Last year its daiginjo won a gold medal at the national sake competition.

Much of the credit belongs to Kyoji Doi, Suigei's toji, or sake brewmaster, a proud member of a dwindling breed. "In the olden days, the eldest sons of farmers made sake after the harvest," explains Doi, 63. He had followed his father into his vocation straight out of high school. "But my son," he says with a rueful, gap-toothed smile, "he's a salaryman."

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Suigei's kura is chilly and dark and reeks sweetly of fermenting rice. The first step in the sakemaking process is the milling and polishing of rice. The more it is polished, the higher the grade of sake. For Suigei's top-grade daiginjo, each grain of famed Yamada nishiki rice is polished until just 30% remains. The rice is then washed and soaked in giant tanks, and poured into vats for steaming.

We cross a plank into the next building, where the steamed rice is fermented. Doi proudly shows me a Tupperware container holding what looks like green tea ground to powder. It's mold, a key ingredient that is mixed into the steamed rice, which is then spread onto platforms in a sauna-like, cedar-paneled chamber, where the heat and humidity help the mold spores grow. To this mixture Doi will add yeast and water to trigger fermentation.

Down wooden stairs, Doi hops nimbly onto a narrow catwalk 4.5 meters above the floor, which connects 30 enormous steel tanks. Each holds a rice mash in varying stages of fermentation and cooling. "In my father's day," Doi says, "they didn't even use thermometers. He just stuck his hand in to determine the temperature." In the final stages of the month-long process, the mash is placed in bags and pressed in what looks like a giant accordion. The liquid that is squeezed out is pasteurized, filtered and aged for half a year in barrels before being bottled and sold.

At the major breweries, much of this process today is automated. Most of what those kura produce is sake of regular grade, often sold in paper cartons and best served hot. Its low quality might account for falling sales. Some breweries, including many in Kobe's Nada ward—sake central for centuries because of its pure mountain-spring water—are trying to reach younger drinkers with products like low-alcohol, low-calorie sake, while also appealing to Japanese nostalgia by encouraging visits. Hakutsuru, the No. 1 brewery, has preserved its 1743 kura as a museum to showcase ancient sakemaking methods.

Just as sake bars are multiplying in Los Angeles (try Katana), New York City (Sakagura) and San Francisco (Ozumo), they're also making a comeback in Japan. Sasano, in the Akasaka entertainment district of Tokyo, is a current hot spot. Regulars sit at the wood-slab bar in the nouveau-Japanese restaurant, where manager Miwa Taguchi recommends selections from the 70 sake choices to flatter each dish a diner orders. Connoisseurs start with a daiginjo such as Higan from Niigata prefecture, which boasts a pretty transparency and refreshing taste that goes well with salty burdock-root chips. The distinctive ginjo-grade Suiro is a good balance for tempura pork. Premium sakes like these are usually served chilled so that drinkers can better savor their nuances.

Enjoying sake properly employs all the senses. First, listen for a clear, springlike glug as it is poured. Next, look for clarity, sheen and color in the liquor. Then sniff the brew for its bouquet and personality. Taste for all those things, and feel it swell going down. Come to think of it, you don't really need cherry blossoms.