Miyako Bijin’s toji, Kunihiro Yamauchi, holds a cup of sake just pressed by tenbin-shibori.
The parts of a sake-pressing run
The initial sake that leaks through without any additional pressure is called arabashiri (meaning “rough run”). This happens before the pressing starts in a sakabune, as the sake-filled bags are laid on top of each other, or at the very start of the bag-hanging method. It’s called “rough” for good reason, but it’s certainly drinkable, and sake makers proudly bottle it.
The most desirable part of the pressing run is the middle phase, known as the naka-dare (middle drops), naka-gumi (the middle draw) or naka-tori (taken from the middle). It’s the heart of the press. When making premium ginjo-shu sake with the bag-hanging method, the middle cut is slowly collected drip by drip in glass bottles known as tobin, which means a “one-to bottle” (a “to” is an old measurement of volume corresponding the roughly 18 liters). The bottle has a small mouth, protecting the prized middle run from contamination and reducing air contact before sealing. The resulting sake, called shizuku-zake or shizuku-shu, is known for being both aromatic and subtle. Since the sake can slowly drip, drawn solely by gravity, flavors and compounds emerge, giving shizuku-shu complexity. All the time and effort that goes into the process comes across in the flavor, aromas—and the price tag. This ain’t cheap.
At the Taiyo Sake Brewery in Niigata, sake kasu (lees) are chopped into squares, weighed and bagged for sale.
When it comes to cleaning, hot water is used to clean tools instead of soap, which leaves a residue and impacts flavor. Pictured is the Kamotsuru Shuzo Brewery in Saijo.
Sake lees: the stuff left behind
The sake-pressing process leaves behind lees known as sake kasu. This by-product can be used to make a delicious winter soup called kasujiru, or to pickle vegetables, or as a marinade for fish or even to bake sake-kasu cake! The lees can also be used to make amazake, a sweet, low-or-non-alcohol drink. Typically, sake breweries have more sake kasu than they know what to do with. The modern automatic compression filter creates sheets of sake kasu that can easily be cut into pieces, bagged and sold.
Cleaning
If you visit a brewery, you’ll see someone is always cleaning something. This is to ensure unwanted bacteria don’t run amok and ruin the sake. In a country with a long-standing bathing culture and a native religion (Shintoism) centered on cleanliness, the incessant washing doesn’t seem out of place. During production, hot water is preferred, as it disinfects without adversely affecting flavor.
Filtering
All sake is filtered (except doburoku, see page 154)
Pasteurization and Bottling
Thanks to modern conveniences, such as refrigerated shipping, and technology like microfiltering that can rid raw sake of unwanted microorganisms, it’s easier than ever to enjoy unpasteurized nama-zake—at least in Japan, where sake makers have a close relationship with retailers and can ensure that a shop’s stock is properly stored and old bottles are switched out for fresh ones. But some brewers want fresh, nama-like aromas and flavors without the worry of dealing with unpasteurized sake, which will go bad if not properly cared for once it leaves the brewery.
In Japanese, pasteurization is called hi-ire. Bringing the brew’s temperature to the neighborhood of 150°F (65°C), will rid the sake of potential nasty bacteria as well as inactivating enzymes, changing the sake’s character. Pasteurization can be done prior to storage, right before bottling or once bottled. Originally a Chinese technique, pasteurization was utilized at least three centuries before Louis Pasteur. The Tamon-in nikki (Tamon-in diary), an account of Buddhist priests in Nara in the 1560s, mentions sake being boiled. Buddhist priests who traveled to China for religious studies often brought back the latest learning; it’s very likely they brought back this practice, too.
Bottles of sake are pasteurized in hot water under a watchful eye at Hayakawa Shuzo in Mie Prefecture. As the temperature rises, so does the sake in the bottles. To cool them, a sprinkler sprays them with water, bringing down the temperature. Hayakawa Shuzo is known for its Tabika brand.
There are several different methods of pasteurization. One is to run sake through a pipe immersed in hot water. Another is to move the sake through a series of metal heating plates, bringing the brew up to 158°F (70°C) in a second or so. Another is to put bottled sake into a pasteurizing machine. The bottles move through on a conveyor belt, getting heated and then sprayed with water to bring down the temperature. This machine helps make sure all the bottles are evenly pasteurized, but it isn’t cheap, costing around $70,000.
A VISIT TO HAKUTSURU: JAPAN’S BIGGEST-SELLING SAKE BREWERY
“The temperature in here is the same as the average for November,” says Mitsuhiro Ban, toji for all three of Hakutsuru’s Nada breweries. I think it must be colder, though—I can see my breath. The third floor of the brewery is all shiny metal and grated walkways and looks like something out of a sci-fi film. Greenish tubes pipe in the koji and white tubes shoot steamed rice into the metal vats.
“Forty percent of all our sake is made in this brewery,” says Ban, who’s friendly and upbeat, speaking in the local dialect. The brewery has the rather ho-hum name of 3-go kojo (Number Three Brewery), but what goes on here is nothing short of remarkable. “The Number Three Brewery makes around 5 percent of all sake produced in Japan.” Fully 5 percent—right here. Over a hundred million gallons. That’s staggering. The brewery’s most famous sake is its Maru brand table sake. Moments earlier, we toured the floor above, where Yamagata-grown table rice polished to 78 percent is washed and soaked in big metal vats—3.5 tons of rice in one go—before being steamed on conveyor belts. Every day, this brewery steams 25 tons of rice.
The rap on mass-produced sake is that an operator sitting at a control panel simply presses a button and, bam, sake is made. In fact, there is a big panel with lighted buttons, but the operator —or rather, the brewer—walks over to the steamed rice, picks up a handful and rubs it on a wooden board to test the elasticity. “We might need to change the steaming time a little,” says Ban, stretching the rice in his hand. “Here, let me show you how the koji is made.”
I stick my face up against a small enclosed metal compartment with a glass top. Inside, a mechanical rotary flicks up koji spores that are sent down a tube into another tube carrying steamed rice, inoculating the grains in the process. The rice is transported to massive automatic, temperature-controlled koji
