begins with a small, often single bite appetizer course—called sakizuke—designed to whet the appetite before the second course, the hassun, which appears with a larger selection of small dishes that will almost always include a fish of some kind and several other ornately presented seasonal morsels.
An elegant starter course at Hoshinoya Karuizawa (see pages 140–143). Multi-course kaiseki meals are an integral part of the ryokan experience and many ryokan pride themselves on providing meals that are better than what you get in an expensive MIchelin-starred restaurant. Of course the room rates reflect this, but keep in mind that half or more of what you are paying for is the food.
Next typically comes the mukozuke, a selection of three or four types of sashimi; perhaps a few slices of sea bream and some succulent small shrimp or scallop hearts. The season and the region will determine the selection, but being sashimi, all will of course be raw for dipping in a little wasabi and soy sauce. Next up comes the simmered takiawase dish, which could be any combination of vegetables or tofu with meat or seafood, and then the futamono dish—a light soup. After that will likely be a flame-broiled yakimono dish, which more often than not is seafood, before a vinegared suzakana dish that refreshes the palate ahead of the main dish (although several other small courses may also follow first), which could be anything from a hotpot of local seafood to a teppan grilled dish featuring prime regional beef or highly prized abalone.
Near the end of the meal, just when you are beginning to wonder if you can physically manage to eat anything else, will come the gohan (rice; often including vegetables or seafood), konomono (pickles) and tomewan (miso soup) courses, and to round things off the mizumono (dessert), which could be as simple as sliced fruit or as tempting as a green tea crème brûlée. As you roll away from the dinner table, just remember that in less than twelve hours’ time you will be back at the table working your way through a multi-course breakfast.
It’s for this reason that most high-quality ryokan don’t offer no-meal stays; after all, they employ some of the country’s best chefs, sometimes serving only several groups a night in the smallest of ryokan, so they simply wouldn’t be able to survive on room-only customers. Even if they did offer a no-meal option, given that it’s common to only stay a single night at a ryokan, to go without the food would be to miss out on a crucial element of the experience—it’s more than worth the splurge.
The okami or “house mother” at the Yoshida Sanso (see pages 76–81) and her daughter. Personal attention and service by experienced okami are a key part of the ryokan experience. They literally take care of you as your mother would—including serving lavish meals in your room.
Then, of course, there are the baths. From working on this book I’ve learned that with so many subtle and not so subtle variations between ryokan, there really isn’t a typical ryokan per se. It is common for ryokan to offer a mixture of bathing options, from small private in-room baths to a selection of large communal bathing areas that might feature an outdoor bath accented by rocks or with views into nature, and indoor wooden baths that might give off the gentle scent of cypress or be infused with citrus. Given that many ryokan are in geothermically active regions, it’s common too for the bath waters to come straight from natural hot-spring sources deep beneath the ryokan, at a naturally piping hot, muscle-relaxing 40 or so degrees Celsius (104 degrees Farenheit) that makes a hot-spring soak one of Japan’s most treasured treats. One that’s said to be healthy, too, with the mineral-rich waters attributed with alleviating ailments as diverse as arthritis and piles.
Tosen Goshobo (see pages 164–167). Volcanic hot-spring bathing with water direct from the ground is another vital feature of the high-quality ryokan in this book.
With the design of a ryokan there are also certain unifying elements, although as this book hopefully demonstrates, there is great variety, too. Rooms in traditional ryokan frequently feature tatami mat flooring and at night futon are laid out on the floor. In one part of the room you’ll find an alcove, called a tokonoma, where a pictorial or calligraphic scroll will be hung, perhaps alongside a flower arrangement. The center of the room will have a low table, where etiquette dictates that the most important guest sits with his or her back to the tokonoma. There’ll be sliding screen doors, too, and laid out on arrival will be your cotton yukata gown, which you can change into for the duration of your stay, allowing you to shed your real-world clothes and immerse yourself in the past.
Many ryokan have rustic designs or even employ old farmhouse buildings like Wa-no-Sato (pages 156–159), located in Gifu Prefecture.
All ryokan place a high value on comfort, which includes the sleeping arrangements. Typically this means a comfortable futon bed laid out each night on a soft tatami floor, but some ryokan, like Seiryuso (see pages 58-61) also feature Western-style beds.
Ryokan rooms are designed for relaxation, which often means contemplation of a beautifully designed Japanese garden, such as this one at Asaba (pages 40–45).
Most of the ryokan in this book (except for those in the historic districts of Kyoto and Nara) are located in the countryside in a gorgeous setting, like Yagyu-no-Sho (pages 52–57).
A TRADITION OF FINE HOSPITALITY
As anyone who has stayed at a ryokan will tell you, the experience is more than a window to classic Japan, it affords an opportunity to immerse yourself in tradition; to experience old Japan as the Japanese have done for generations—in a way that is unadulterated, unhurried, and undoubtedly unforgettable.
Like so much of Japan’s richly woven cultural tapestry, the ryokan has a long and winding history that has seen it develop from humble beginnings to today’s pampering retreat. Delve into the ryokan’s roots and you’ll be reaching back to the Nara period (710–784), a time when the political, social and religious structures of classical Japanese civilization were taking shape. It was then that simple but free rest houses for travelers called fuseya first appeared. They were run by Buddhist monks to help keep travelers from the perils of the road.
In the Heian era (794–1191), a rise in the popularity of pilgrimages among the elite classes saw a twist on fuseya arise, with feudal manors and temples opening themselves to pilgrims. It’s hard to know just how spartan the latter—called shukubo—would have been back then, but the modern-day version of temple accommodation is a fascinating experience for pilgrims and tourists alike. In Koya-san, the mountain-top town home to the Shingon sect of Buddhism, almost half of the one hundred or so temples and monasteries that hug the mountain provide almost ryokan-like shukubo, with modest tatami-mat rooms but exquisite vegetarian shojin-ryori cuisine and opportunities to experience temple life by attending morning prayers and meditation.
It’s difficult to entirely separate shukubo from ryokan—many current ryokan, for example, were once shukubo. But as temple lodgings
