A straightforward Japanese rice bowl finds perfection in simplicity.
In virtually every circumstance that comes to mind, a steaming pile of rice is stellar on its own. But to top those grains with ingredients simmered in dashi and soy sauce, before they’re set into a bowl and sprinkled with scallions and shichimi, culminating in delicious donburi, is another plane of pleasure entirely. As straightforward as these Japanese rice bowls may seem — (perfect) rice! Covered with (perfectly) poached ingredients! Served in a (perfect) bowl! — their understatedness belie their exquisiteness.
Donburi can vary pretty wildly: The versions you’ll find in the Kansai region can look very different from those in Kyushu, which, in turn, can differ from their cousins in Hokkaido or Kanto. And while there are many possibilities, some all-stars make repeat appearances: simmered beef in gyudon, tempura in tentamadon and raw salmon in hokkaidon. But in practically every iteration, a bowl of rice is topped with a thick layer of deliciousness and served in proportions that vary from the very humble to the deeply extravagant.
Recipe: Oyakodon (Chicken and Egg Rice Bowl)
There’s a sort of holiness in donburi’s simplicity, which is endless, permeable and variable. With its smoking eel just slightly grilled and settled over rice, every bowl of unadon I’ve eaten at Kuromon Market in Osaka, tanked in the mornings after cartwheeling with the gays through the city’s Doyama district, has been the closest I’ve found myself to divinity. And no matter how sleepy or hung over or hangry it found me, each bowl of tendon that I’ve scarfed, standing cross-legged in a train station, has been just ethereal enough to carry me to wherever I’m going. Even just watching the glistening bowls of animated katsudon — fried pork loins, simmered in eggs — in animated episodes of “Yuri!!! on Ice” is cause enough to wonder what I sacrificed in a past life to warrant such decadence in this one.
But while every iteration of donburi is three kinds of magical, oyakodon is what I’ll always return to. The dish name translates to “parent-and-child bowl.” Seasoned chicken is simmered in dashi — alongside soy sauce, mirin and a dealer’s choice of flavors — before it’s ladled and guzzled down as the runny yolks meld with your bowl’s filling. While oyakodon’s exact origins remain opaque, one of its earliest recorded mentions may have come in 1884, in an advertisement for a restaurant in Kobe; by other accounts, the centuries-old restaurant Tamahide, in Tokyo, claims responsibility for the dish.
Tiny epiphanies: the chicken’s suppleness, the egg’s slickness, the reassuring tug of rice on your teeth.
My own forays at cooking it were, at first, failures. I’d overcook the chicken. Or I’d overcook the eggs. The seasoning wasn’t present, or it was entirely too heavy. Or my calibration of liquid to filling wasn’t quite hitting, overtaking the bowl of rice rather than collaborating with it. One of oyakodon’s joys is in how no ingredient calls too much attention to itself — it just works. And while eating a bowl cooked by storefront vendors, chain-shop chefs, train-stall owners or restaurateurs, all working at the highest levels of precision, certainly has its joys, cooking your own oyakodon constitutes a series of tiny epiphanies: The chicken’s suppleness, the egg’s slickness and the reassuring tug of rice on your teeth make for a meal that’s familiar and undeniably indispensable.
So there are as many ways to prepare oyakodon as there are chefs, and the formula mostly remains the same — but honestly, it ultimately comes down to feeling. My ideal oyakodon might not look exactly like yours, but both will be delicious. And when you’re cooking this dish, particularly for the first time, it’s helpful to take heed of the recipe, sure — but also to the sound of each ingredient as it simmers in your pan, and how the smell begins to envelop your kitchen as it nears completion. With every attempt, your preferences may change, and with every alteration you make, oyakodon becomes squarely, and decidedly, yours.
But, worst case, you could always leave it to the experts. I was recently wandering (flailing) through Hankyu Osaka-Umeda Station, in pursuit of a particular croissant shop (lost), and I remember passing the same set of glowing escalators for what seemed like the umpteenth time when I decided that I’d settle for whatever nourishment I could get. A plethora of options stood nearby, but I opted for the closest, a tiny stall with just a few things on the menu, including oyakodon of varying sizes. The first bite tasted so familiar that I hardly thought anything of it. I was nearly halfway through my bowl before I realized that I couldn’t remember the last time that happened: devouring a dish that was so very much itself that I couldn’t be burdened with comparing it to anything else.
I all but melted into my seat. But that wouldn’t have been prudent. A line had formed outside. I packed my things, tucking back toward the station, so that the next person could enjoy this particular state of bliss.
Recipe: Oyakodon (Chicken and Egg Rice Bowl)
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