I expected to hear more of the lake, maybe the gentle slap of water against the shore, but the cottage we’d booked was tucked away in a quiet forest, a short walk from the hotel’s main building.
Aside from the occasional bird call and the rustling of leaves, a profound hush filled the air, as though the entire world had drifted into silence.
It took about two and a half hours to drive here from Tokyo, and by leaving early on a Saturday, we managed to avoid the usual motorway congestion.
The temperature was a good five or six degrees lower than Tokyo, a crisp chill that seemed to sharpen my mind each time I stepped outside.
On the drive, I caught several glimpses of Mount Fuji’s regal silhouette.
Yet from the cottage itself, surrounded by tall trees, I couldn’t see the mountain at all—an odd sense of seclusion, knowing that grandeur was so close, yet hidden.
As soon as we arrived, we learned that the local specialty around Lake Motosu (one of the Fuji Five Lakes) is udon.
More precisely, “Yoshida Udon,” a variety noted for its especially firm texture.
Intrigued, we headed for a well-known restaurant, more like a diner, frequented by locals.
Arriving around noon, we found the place already busy, with customers queueing out the door since its 10:30 a.m. opening.
The shop owner, dressed in a plain white T-shirt, work trousers, and rubber boots, darted between steaming pots and the serving counter.
An elderly man with white hair, his back slightly curved, bustled in the kitchen, ladling hot water and transferring noodles into bowls.
At one point, the owner briefly removed the shop curtain (the noren) and hung it inside the door, as if to signal a potential shortage of noodles.
A few minutes later, the curtain reappeared outside—perhaps a sign that a fresh batch of dough was ready after all.
The tension of “Will I get my bowl before they run out?” gave the whole place a unique energy.
Right then, an old regular slipped in and called out, “The usual—hot one,” before we could even place our orders.
It turned out there was only one dish on the menu: thick udon noodles topped with a handful of cabbage.
You got to choose hot or cold, nothing else.
But that minimalist approach only intensified our curiosity.
I’ve always been a fan of chewy noodles, so I ordered the cold version for that bracing, al dente bite.
It reminded me of a trip I once made to Kagawa Prefecture, known for Sanuki udon—when I’d also ordered a cold bowl, despite the December chill.
The moment my dish arrived, we knew we were in for something special.
The noodles were far thicker and firmer than what I’d expected—almost “jaw-breaking,” in a good way.
Each bite required real effort, an unusual texture that made me smile almost laugh and think: this isn’t just delicious, it’s fun.
The simple broth tasted light, almost subdued, but that restraint allowed me to focus on the subtle interplay of flour, salt, dried sardines, and soy sauce.
It felt as if each ingredient was stepping forward on its own small stage.
Curious, I picked up a single strand of udon with my fingers and bit down to examine its cross-section.
Sure enough, the center looked ever so slightly undercooked—perhaps that was the secret to achieving such a remarkable chew.
Unlike pasta, where sauces or extra ingredients often add color and flavor, this dish boasted an almost philosophical simplicity: flour, salt, the slightest garnish of local cabbage, and a delicate broth.
It reminded me of a central tenet of Japanese culture: the “beauty of subtraction,” where less can be so much more.
At some point, I realized I’d been mentally dissecting every last detail—the flour’s origin, how the dough was kneaded, the exact timing of its brief plunge in boiling water.
These thoughts floated through my head as I slurped another strand.
Indeed, it was as if each mouthful was encouraging me to explore new heights of culinary awareness.
You might call it a 450-yen lesson in food philosophy: a small bowl that reminded me just how profound something so basic—a simple noodle—can be.
Even now, recalling that jaw-testing chew and the quiet forest around Lake Motosu, I feel a renewed sense of gratitude for small pleasures.
Sometimes, it’s the unassuming bowl of noodles—rather than the grandiosity of a famous peak or the vastness of a lake—that leaves the deepest impression.
And in that stillness, as if I were the only person in the world, I discovered a taste that spoke volumes about the art of simplicity.
