Eating Fugu: Flirting with Death

Eating fugu – an unforgettable night of daring flavors and shared mirth.

Pufferfish: Fugu

Pufferfish or fugu in Japanese is infamous for its ability to cause death almost instantaneously due to the poison in its liver and other body parts. For this reason, Europe has long prohibited its consumption, while the United States enforces stringent regulations. Japan, however, boldly embraces fugu as a national delicacy while ensuring the safety of those who partake in this risky gastronomic adventure.

Historically, fugu faced a ban in Japan as well. This changed when a determined woman defied the prohibition. During Prime Minister Ito Hirobumi’s visit to Shimonoseki – a city renowned for its traditional fugu dishes, the proprietress of Shunpanro restaurant, unable to purchase other fish due to a storm, sought and received permission to serve fugu. After personally witnessing her preparation and consuming the dish without incident, Hirobumi’s stance on fugu shifted. 

In 1888, Shunpanro became the first restaurant authorized to sell fugu, setting a precedent that led to the gradual lifting of the ban across other regions. Nevertheless, the government maintains a tight grip on the industry, strictly regulating the number of fugu establishments and fugu chefs.

Becoming a licensed fugu chef requires two to three years of intensive training and a considerable amount of luck to pass the challenging test in which approximately 65% of candidates fail. As mandated by safety regulations, chefs are required to sample the fugu dishes they craft to ensure their safety before presentation. The combination of its high cost, rigorous preparation standards, and inherent risk elevates fugu to the status of a prized and uncommon delicacy.

Eating Fugu: A Party with Death

On our final evening in Japan, we decided to indulge in fugu. Situated by the sea, Osaka offered this delicacy at a reasonable price. After three weeks of feasting on Japanese delights, temple treks, and shinkansen sprints, we were brimming with a sense of daring do-or-dine. So, with our spirits high and our wills updated, we were all set for a special eventuality, even a cheeky tango with the Angel of Death.

The staff at Osaka Tourist Information Center provided the contact details of two reputable fugu establishments in Namba district. Our hotel’s receptionist kindly arranged our reservation, and we embarked on our culinary adventure the following night. 

Luck was on our side, thanks to the locals’ eagerness to assist. A subway conductor pointed us towards the right exit, a passerby shared a nifty shortcut, and a friendly shop assistant from a neighboring store guided us straight to the restaurant’s doorstep. Language was no obstacle for the owner; our names on the reservation list were all he needed to greet us with a beaming smile and lead us to our eagerly awaited table.

The eatery was cozy, a snug space with seven four-seater tables. Conscious of occupying extra space, we decided to order every dish on the menu as a courteous gesture.

Our adventure commenced with an appetizer of pure white fugu skin strips, delicately sprinkled with green shallot leaves and served alongside a robust brown sauce. The skin’s texture surpassed the suppleness of arrowroot vermicelli, while the sauce offered a harmonious blend of salty and sour, with a sweet aftertaste that pleasantly lingered. Vibrant shallot leaves add an enticing twist to the palate.

Next up was the sashimi, and what a treat it was. Paper-thin slices of fugu were arranged in a chrysanthemum pattern on a plate as blue as the ocean. The fugu? Soft to the touch, without even a hint of fishiness, and just the right amount of sweetness. No need for wasabi here; the fugu’s flavor was perfectly fine flying solo.

The fugu steaks were golden brown on the outside and silky smooth on the inside. Biting into them was like discovering that perfect spot between rare and well-done in a steak. Sure, they might give your jaw a workout if you’re not much of a chewer, but it’s all worth it. Each chew releases a burst of umami flavor.

Crispy breaded fugu is a game-changer: it’s got that fried chicken vibe but with a kick of garlic and a whisper of sake. Give it a quick hit of lemon juice and a pinch of sea salt, and bam! That humble fried fish transforms into a cozy, soul-soothing treat, perfect for a chilly spring night in Japan.

And just when we thought it couldn’t get any cozier, a charcoal stove was brought to our table. The aroma of grilled fugu filled the air, mingling with the heat of glowing embers and the sizzle of teriyaki sauce on the grill, all set against the relaxed backdrop of surrounding chatter. Each bite offered a perfect contrast – a caramelized exterior giving way to a tender interior, with sauces ranging from deliciously satisfying to absolutely sensational.

The showstopper of the evening? The hot pot! It was a white paper hot pot nestled snugly in a bamboo basket. Our eyes nearly popped out as the waitress set it on the table’s built-in electric stove and dialed up the heat. In no time, the stove’s bright red coils had the water dancing and bubbling like a miniature volcano. And the paper and bamboo? They didn’t bat an eye. Turns out, it was washi paper – that super sturdy, traditional Japanese paper that scoffs at water and heat.

Jumping into the fugu hot pot was like bumping into a stingray’s more refined relative, but minus the need for any sour zing you’d expect from a stingray affair. Along for the ride were veggies like edible chrysanthemum and cabbage, adding their own crunch to the mix. 

After we devoured the fish and leafy bits, it was time for the encore: a fresh pour of broth. We tossed in a heap of cooked rice and a drizzle of beaten eggs. The result was a porridge that was downright awesome – plump rice and fluffy eggs taking a dip in a broth that’s rich, fragrant, and packed with that unmistakable fugu magic.

We wrapped up the feast with ice cream and hot tea “on the house” – a sweet gesture from the owner. And the cherry on top is no doubt the check. Each of us shelled out just about 100 bucks. A steal, really, for such a rare treat.

As we stepped out into the cool spring night, our hearts were light and our stomachs warm, each of us carrying a new tale to add to our collection. Apparently Death himself, out for his nightly jaunt, had glanced at our merry band and chosen to pass us by, recognizing the Japanese fugu chefs as unsung heroes in his silent game, their deft hands and vigilant eyes snatching victory from the jaws of risk. Merging back into the lively throngs on Osaka’s streets, we were rich with the flavors of daring and the echoes of shared mirth, a night to remember.

mlefood