The cold rice test: Why your microwave is useless
Do you think you can tell truly good rice from merely passable rice? If you are a typical Western palate that sees rice as nothing more than a neutral, sticky foil for the main dish, then you are completely wrong. I’m prepared to argue this point vigorously.
Here in Hokkaido, rice was, for a long time, the cheap option. Thirty years ago, when I was a kid, our local rice was frankly inferior to what was grown in the south. But we ate it because, well, my parents were cheap—or rather, fiscally responsible. The times have changed. Thanks to relentless, methodical breed improvements (a very Japanese trait), Hokkaido rice is now a major national brand.
Because today’s rice is so uniformly good, judging quality when it’s hot is impossible. But I can tell you the only real test: Try it after the rice gets cold. Truly exceptional rice remains delicious even when cooled. You might scoff, “Who cares? That’s what microwaves are for!” But this misses the cultural point. We still make rice balls (onigiri) for picnics and lunch boxes. We need the cold rice to be a satisfying, foundational food, not just a quickly reheated starch. This insistence on quality even in absence of heat is the true measure of Japanese food culture.
The myth of Japanese abundance: 400,000 km of labor
The eternal question for historians of Japanese agriculture: Why did our ancestors choose rice cultivation 10,000 years ago when wheat was already spreading across the Eurasian Continent? Many assume it was the climate—warm, humid, and rich in water. Even I used to believe this simplistic theory. But if the climate is good for rice, it’s also good for wheat. (In fact, Hokkaido is now famous for both.)
The answer lies in brutal, simple efficiency. I discovered the definitive reason in some old documents: rice cultivation is dramatically superior in efficiency per area (about 1.5 times) and in seed-to-harvest ratio (about 5 times) compared to wheat. For a small, mountainous island nation surrounded by the sea, there was no other choice. It was a macro-level decision born of micro-level scarcity.
Furthermore, I had a fundamental misunderstanding about Japan’s environment: it is not rich in water. Yes, we get a lot of rain, but since 70% of the land is mountains, that precious rainwater races quickly to the sea. To make the land fertile, our ancestors spent centuries developing elaborate waterways whose total length amounts to 400,000 km—ten turns around the Earth. That’s not abundance; that’s a legacy of colossal, necessary labor.
A farmer’s curry and the profundity of a meal
Now, let me introduce you to a sanctuary of this hard-won efficiency: “No-Ka-Ya” (meaning “Farmer’s Store”). It’s a curry rice restaurant run by an actual rice farmer, located, quite literally, in the middle of his rice fields on the way to Asahikawa city center. You can monitor the exact growth progress of the rice plant that will soon be on your plate.
The genius of this place is its sheer authenticity. The rice and vegetables are grown right on site, eliminating every possible inefficiency in the supply chain. And yes, you get to sit in our dining chairs—crafted from resilient wood—in this cozy building renovated from a barn.
Sitting there, eating a humble dish of curry and rice, you are not just enjoying a meal. You are participating in a 10,000-year history of efficiency, sustained by 400,000 km of ancestral labor. It is, perhaps, the most profoundly philosophical curry rice experience you can have. And I’m quite sure the rice passes the cold test.
I confess that I used to take our rice for granted, until I learned it was the prize of a 10,000-year struggle and a 400,000 km legacy of labor. In Japan, we don’t just eat; we celebrate the efficiency of the land. Our Hatsune Miku Art Chair is the furniture equivalent of that ‘cold rice test’—a masterpiece that remains perfect and satisfying long after the initial ‘heat’ of its debut fades. It’s crafted from the same resilient Hokkaido spirit that turned mountainous rain into fertile fields. Now, here is a taste of our most refined harvest: the image below is your link to the special site. If you prefer the quick, shallow warmth of the ordinary, do NOT click it. But if you’re ready to experience a seat built on ten millennia of dedication, go ahead. Savor the legacy. —— The Hatsune Miku Art Chair.
Photo credit: https://asatan.com/articles/1358
Shungo Ijima
Global Connector | Reformed Bureaucrat | Professional Over-Thinker
After years of navigating the rigid hallways of Japan’s Ministry of Finance and surviving an MBA, he made a life-changing realization: spreadsheets are soulless, and wood has much better stories to tell.
Currently an Executive at CondeHouse, he travels the world decoding the “hidden DNA” of Japanese culture—though, in his travels, he’s becoming increasingly more skilled at decoding how to find the cheapest hotels than actual cultural mysteries.
He has a peculiar talent for finding deep philosophical meaning in things most people ignore as meaningless (and to be fair, they are often actually meaningless). He doesn’t just sell furniture; he’s on a mission to explain Japan to the world, one intellectually over-analyzed observation at a time. He writes for the curious, the skeptical, and anyone who suspects that a chair might actually be a manifesto in disguise.
Follow his journey as he bridges the gap between high-finance logic and the chaotic art of living!