Since I was little, I always was interested in cooking, partly because my family is a bunch of gourmands.

But I never had a chance to feed my hungry cooking soul: As child, the only task my mother granted me was whipping vinaigrette sauce, and, when I lived in Tokyo as a single salary-girl, I often preferred a restaurant to the lonesome dinette in my two-room flat -- or I was just too idle.

Today, being a woman of eternal leisure in the quiet French countryside (I can't work because I don't have a working visa), I have plenty of time and command over the holy place at last. The kitchen and I have become inseparable.

I like to cook different things every day, depending on my fickle mood and fridge contents, especially to test new recipes with products from around the world that I find here: from rice paper as light as dragonfly wings, mysterious pastes, balmy herbs, to fulsome spices and colorful beans -- those from Southeast Asia, North Africa or India -- not to mention the fresh, excellent eats from every corner of France.

Without pretending Michelin three stars, my uncharted cuisine is an evanescent but tasty voyage to the terrae incognitae that I dream of -- from Tunisia, Vietnam, Thailand, to as far as the Antilles of the West Indies. But when it comes to a gustatory trip to my country, I cringe. And I know why.

"Can you make sushi?" To me, it's one of the most unnerving questions. Every time I hear that, I want to run away and deeply regret being born Japanese. I've never tried to make sushi because I can eat better at restaurants.

Despite the piercing flash of disappointment on friends' faces ("How can a Japanese not know how to make sushi? It's such simple stuff with slices of raw fish"), I keep refusing to convert myself into a sushi chef in France because 1) It's difficult to find ingredients, and they are quite pricey, 2) Usually fish isn't fresh enough to eat raw and I'm afraid of poisoning people, 3) I can't identify the names of local fish (they are often in fillets). And finally, I can't let sushi complicate my life further. . . .

But local sushi amateurs are not so lazy as I. I have a French friend who, mad about this famous Japanese specialty, goes spying for the rolling techniques at restaurants. Once he invited us over to meticulously rolled nori-maki (they are called makis here) with sliced tuna, salmon, avocado -- and maybe a little too much wasabi (they call it wazabi ).

Besides him, a sushi wave -- at restaurants, takeout stands, frozen-food chains or in cook books -- is infiltrating insidiously into the French kitchen. Many people today speak of Kikkoman, miso soup and fugu, and rejoice struggling with chopsticks.

Concerning this popularity of sushi, I sometimes wonder: Why does a piece of raw fish atop a tiny rice ball draw people widely known as gourmets? Some say the freshness, others say it's healthy -- to me, more likely, it's sushi's artful style that catches their hearts.

Then how about other Japanese cuisine? Actually, out of the mighty sushi-yakitori-tempura triangle, other dishes are hardly seen at Japanese restaurants, the majority of which are run by Chinese.

Recently, there was a middle-aged French man who wanted to eat Japanese at our B&B. I hesitatingly opened my precious provisions, and somehow fixed tamagoyaki and soba. Later I overheard a voice saying, "Well, it's not so bad, but absolutely not Japanese."

Perhaps it's time to think seriously about converting myself into a sushi chef.

I'd welcome any comments or opinions, in Japanese or English, about my column. You can write or fax me at The Weekly, or e-mail me at jtweekly@japantimes.co.jp

The Japan Times Weekly: Feb. 19, 2005
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