The first time I ordered natto in a Japanese restaurant my server eyed me skeptically and said, “Are you sure?” It only made me want it more. Then the fermented soybeans arrived, and I instantly understood. The stuff looked like a swamp and smelled like old socks. Each bean seemed to be held prisoner in a thick, slimy, metallic-tasting membrane. And the taste? The first rush on the tongue was sour and earthy. Then came a lingering bitterness that not even rice could temper.
Learning to Love Natto
Learning to Love Natto
Learning to Love Natto
The first time I ordered natto in a Japanese restaurant my server eyed me skeptically and said, “Are you sure?” It only made me want it more. Then the fermented soybeans arrived, and I instantly understood. The stuff looked like a swamp and smelled like old socks. Each bean seemed to be held prisoner in a thick, slimy, metallic-tasting membrane. And the taste? The first rush on the tongue was sour and earthy. Then came a lingering bitterness that not even rice could temper.