In the land known for its exceptional fish and beef, Peckish author Ed Smith found himself side-tracked by the sheer quality of Japanese chicken. Reporting exclusively from Fukuoka, he shares thoughts on Japanese precision, focus – and an amazing type of fowl
‘I’m writing this on a bullet train hurtling at 300km towards Kyoto. My mind is moving at a similar speed, buzzing in fever dream state between memories of the meals I’ve enjoyed over the last four days. All of them involving chicken.
Although not in Japan to solely eat fowl things – I take too much joy from ramen, soba and udon noodles, sushi, tonkatsu and tempura to limit myself – I’m also not not eating chicken. And despite being in a country perhaps more internationally renowned for its raw fish, intricately marbled beef and crisp-fried pork cutlets, chicken seems to have a way of finding me. Which is helpful, as we’d done very little planning and certainly no restaurant-scoping before landing in Fukuoka, the capital of Japan’s western-most island, Kyushu.
In Akizuki, a pin-drop-quiet castle town/village, we gratefully fell into one of only two places open for dinner – described online simultaneously specifically and vaguely as ‘a chicken restaurant’.
It was not so much a restaurant as a room with seven separate binchotan-fuelled barbecues, on which groups could cook their chosen cuts of chicken, before enjoying the smoke-tinged results seasoned by different salts, plus rice cooked in chicken stock. And beer. No frills beyond that, yet so much joy. The primal nature of proceedings helped, but really it was the quality of the chicken which, subsequent digging revealed, was Hakata-jidori, a breed precisely raised and geographically rooted, reared for at least 80 days (your average supermarket chicken lives less than half that time), so that it’s large and meaty, succulent but with bite, and its bones sturdy and full of nutrients (subsequently prized out when boiled for broth).
On our way back to Fukuoka via a gently winding set of buses and local trains, we fell into the nearest rail station lean-to for lunch expecting a coin slot noodle soup bar. Turns out we had stumbled on not just another ‘chicken restaurant’, rather low-key yet truly outstanding one. Here, we ate the same breed, but this time cooked by a true pro, each set menu option focusing on a specific part of the bird, and each of those things flame grilled, steamed or deep fried to their optimum.
Again, there was chicken rice and a collagen-rich broth on the side. And again the chicken wowed: bouncy, juicy meat, deeply savoury, almost sweet. It needed nothing beyond the occasional dip in ponzu dressing and soy sauce.
We really hadn’t expected anything when we walked into the tiny room (a dozen seats), but it was one of those moments where, once your slightly confused order has been taken, you realise you’re in for an indelible memory: the economy of movement of a chef in his early sixties who’d most likely being doing the same thing for the past 40 years; the precisely butchered portions of thighs; breasts flame-licked then steamed; his staggered addition of different cuts of chicken to the fryer to make kara’age; the combination of instinct, experience and reverence as he judged ‘doneness’. After eating I noticed other signs hiding in plain sight, which indicated that here was a chicken shop of true excellence: a flyer for the Hakata chicken association; and a plastic model of a chicken on a shelf in the loo, which demonstrated how to best break down a bird (don’t worry, I washed my hands and, given Japan’s impeccable toilet situation, I’m sure others did too).
In the evening, now deep in the bustling coastal capital, there was a bubbling bowl of mizutaki, the regional chicken hot pot, its broth opaque, viscous, rich; thigh meat poached gently at the table, showcasing the fact that this breed was designed for this purpose so that it retained bite, rather than flake. Relatively unfussy (everything in Japanese cooking is considered and deliberate) but totally successful.
At this point in the trip I haven’t even stopped at a yakitori bar yet. But I know that the experience of eating the different skewers (thigh, wing, skin, meatball) each seasoned differently, each cooked to a precise moment will reflect the same thing: a menu in a single subject restaurant might seem narrow, but the focus will be absolute, and the experience expansive.
The greatest challenge of Peckish, my new chicken-focused cookbook was never a shortage of ideas. Quite the opposite. Chicken is endlessly adaptable: it roasts, braises, grills, fries, poaches and stews its way through virtually every global cuisine. I could’ve written ten volumes and still leave out someone’s favourite dish, or find that the next scroll of social media leaves me green-eyed with envy at another person’s mouthwatering way with chicken.
That challenge reflects the ‘problem’ that I hope Peckish can solve: infinite possibilities causes overwhelm and cooking paralysis. Japan’s mastery of single subject restaurant shows, however, there is value in restraint. By narrowing the options into a concise selection of delicious, highly cookable meals, you make them actually usable. You don’t need infinite choice to feel inspired.
There’s still variety, of course. But Peckish curates a set of global classics and contemporary twists that should provide an answer when you next look in the fridge and wonder what to do with your weekly pack of breast/mini fillets/thighs/drumsticks/whole bird etc. There’s comforting, celebratory, healthy and not so healthy, all cooked from scratch yet most realistic for a weeknight (the rest worthwhile weekend projects and feasts). It should prove a truly useful, reliable and inspiring one-stop shop.
Right, gotta go. The train is pulling in. I’m off to find a yakitori bar.’
