The Japanese Sake Bible. Brian Ashcraft
Sakes
These niche offerings may be hard to find, but that doesn’t mean they are less important or less delicious than more common brews.
Kijoshu dessert sake 貴醸酒: This sake was born in 1973 after the National Research Institute of Brewing decided there should be a luxurious nihonshu to serve at diplomatic functions instead of wine or champagne. A researcher named Makoto Satoh devised a sweet brew that used sake in the later brewing stage instead of water. When sake is adding during the final stage, fermentation stops. The yeast is overwhelmed by all the sugar, and producing acidic compounds. All the sugars that should have been converted into alcohol are left behind, resulting in a delightfully sweet, yet highly acidic brew. According to an imperial manuscript dating from 927, there was a similar historical precedent for this sake, but kijoshu is very much a modern invention. For more on kijoshu, see pages 150–151.
Shiga Prefecture brewery Emishiki is known for its kijoshu dessert sakes. Here is a a collection of releases at the brewery.
Koshu aged sake 古酒: Literally “old sake,” koshu has no legal definition. Within the sake industry, any sake that has been matured within the brewing year is technically koshu, and the term jukusei koshu (matured koshu) is used for brews with older vintages of three years or more. However, consumers tend to refer to any sake that’s aged for an extended period of time as koshu, with the longer maturation period resulting in rich flavors that will appeal to whisky, sherry and brandy drinkers.
In 1966, the Kyoto brewery Masuda Tokubee Shoten, a favorite of renowned film director Akira Kurosawa, revived koshu. The brewery’s president at the time discovered a description of koshu in Honcho shokkan (A mirror of our country’s food), a compendium of Japanese food published in 1697. “Shinshu is newly brewed 100 percent rice sake, and koshu is 100 percent rice sake that is over a year old,” reads the text, which also notes that koshu’s aroma does not become pleasant and its flavor doesn’t deepen until the three-year mark. The maturation process, with sake aging in jugs, was also described. Masuda Tokubee Shoten brewed what would become its first koshu in 1966 from Yamada Nishiki rice with a polishing ratio of 35 percent and released it a decade later as Kohaku Hikari (Amber Light). It was a domestic-only premium product, then priced at 5,000 yen for the smaller 720 ml (1½-pint) bottle and 10,000 yen for the larger 1.8-liter (4-pint) bottle. Masuda Tokubee Shoten still makes its 10-year Kohaku Hikari, which it now ships around the globe.
Now, in the brewery’s attic, more than 1,200 20-liter (5-gallon) ceramic jugs are stacked up like casks to age. The stopper of each jug is made from paulownia wood and sealed with washi (Japanese paper). There are glazed and unglazed ceramic jugs; the unglazed ones are highly susceptible to evaporation in Kyoto’s notoriously humid summers. Like whisky and wine in casks, a portion of the koshu in jugs evaporates into the air. In English, this is called the “angel’s share,” which is literally translated into Japanese as tenshi no wakemae. But what percentage of koshu evaporates each year? Masuda Tokubee Shoten brewer Guillaume Ozanne reckons it’s difficult to give an exact number, because while the ceramic jugs look largely uniform, each one is handcrafted and therefore has its own unique properties. How much koshu evaporates can ultimately depend on the jug, and the brewers won’t find that out until afterward. Sometimes, they can lose 20 percent, while other times, they actually lose 100 percent. “We were the first to bring back koshu, and we’re still the only ones to age it like this,” says the Normandy-born Ozanne.
After Masuda Tokubee Shoten revived the brewing of koshu, a small number of breweries, such as Sawanotsuru, followed suit (see pages 131–33). To avoid evaporation during maturation, other breweries either cold-store their koshu or age it at low temperatures.
Taruzake 樽酒: Meaning “cask sake,” taruzake comprised pretty much all sake sold until the advent of bottles in the 20th century. In those days sake was shipped and sold in cedar casks, which had the side effect of imparting woody notes onto the sake. These days, taruzake is hardly standard fare, but Kiku Masamune in Kobe’s Nada brewing district has continued to make it, even employing coopers to craft the casks. Typically, sake is stored in the casks only for a couple days, so this is more of a flavoring than prolonged aging. (To read more about cask aging, see page 34.)
In the foreground is a bottle of Sawanotsuru’s honjozo aged sake that was brewed in 1973.
The maturation cellar at Masuda Tokubee Shoten, filled with ceramic jugs.
Masuda Tokubee Shoten brewer Guillaume Ozanne hails from Normandy in France and worked at French yogurt-maker Dannon, before moving to Japan.
The Return of Koshu
During the Edo period (1603–1868), records state that koshu was fetching two to three times more than other sake. It was a premium product. Samurai sake aficionados no doubt liked koshu’s savory and sweet flavors and were aware that to make koshu, you needed precious time. According to one Edo shopping guide from 1824, nine-year-old koshu (yes, there were age statements!) was more than double the cheapest koshu and three times the price of the least expensive new brew. But during the Meiji period (1868–1912) and the years that followed, old sake became a relic of the past.
“Now when we make sake, we are taxed on the sake we ship from the brewery,” says Hiroyuki Konno, the assistant brewing manager at Sawanotsuru. “But during the Meiji period, breweries were taxed on the sake they made.” That meant storing sake was a tax liability, and breweries began selling sake as soon as possible to recoup costs. In both the Russo-Japanese War and World War II, the Japanese government wanted sake breweries to make and sell as much sake as possible to pay for its military machine. During World War II, especially, when there were rice shortages forcing breweries to make imitation sake, aging sake was inconceivable. “In 1954, the law changed,” says Konno. “Breweries were taxed on what they shipped, but by that time everyone had forgotten about koshu.”
“This koshu dates from 1973,” says Konno. On a table in this meeting room are 11 bottles of koshu dating from 1973 to 2014. The sake comes in shades that you don’t typically see in sake—cream, amber, honey and marmalade. “Do you see these different hues?” Konno asks, holding up a glass of koshu from 1991. I take a sip. The flavors are more pronounced than in typical sake, and the aromas remind me of brandy or even whisky, though more reserved, and without the oak notes. I nose a 2010 junmai ginjo koshu: there are flowers and old books. The 2008 junmai daiginjo koshu is creamy vanilla. But in the background and the finish, there’s umami, and depending on the koshu, the savoriness can range from that of a light broth to a much deeper one reminiscent of soy sauce. At the end of the table are the older vintages. Light streams through a lace curtain, softly illuminating the koshu. I nose a 1973 junmai koshu. It’s like a delicious Sunday breakfast, with maple and pancakes. “We haven’t released that one just yet,” Konno says. “I think it needs more time.” I think it’s fantastic.
Today, koshu comprises just a tiny percentage of all sake. There are less than 30 breweries nationwide in Japan’s Association for Long Term Aged Sake, of which the Nada brewery Sawanotsuru is a member. The group defines jukusei koshu (matured koshu) as sake that has been aged for three years, because that that point the savory flavors and aromas are apparent. During its second year of maturation, the differences become noticeable, but this period is koshu’s awkward adolescent phase, and the changes are not necessarily for the better. By the third year, the savory flavors and aromas associated with koshu start to appear. Incidentally, this is also how long Scotch spirit must age in oak to be called whisky.