The Champagnes of Sake

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 business 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 the 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 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, the 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. Straight out of high school, he followed his father into his vocation. "But my son," he says with a rueful, gap-toothed smile, "he's a salaryman."