In the showdown between me and Japanese food, there was one foe that could always best me: nattō.
Nattō. Fermented soybeans. You've probably heard of it. It's a divisive comestible, in that way only things that are called "food" yet smell like rotting feet are. While nearly everyone in Japan will lecture you on the health benefits of eating nattō (lowered risk of osteoporosis and cancer and blood clots and obesity and maybe...death?), there are actually a fair number of Japanese people who find the stuff repellent. The thing that makes nattō so disgustingly special is its texture, which manages to be at once slimy, slippery and stringy. This is a byproduct of the fermenting and aging process, during which the beans are soaked, fermented under heated conditions, then aged at a much cooler temperature. Meanwhile, Bacillus subtilis natto, a rice straw bacterium, does its not-so-subtle work and a pile of sticky, odiferous beans results.
But my cowering at the sight of nattō wouldn't do. I refused to be bullied, especially by something made of beans. Beans are small. Beans are innocuous. Beans are even kind of wimpy. So I armed myself with a fistful of green onions and a bowl of hot rice, excellent allies in any Japanese food showdown, and set to work.
Although I entertained thoughts of wimping out and starting with the black soybean nattō, which is supposed to be less strongly flavored, I decided to instead go for an all-purpose brand that had always caught my eye when I peeked fearfully at the nattō section of the grocery store. It came with small packets of tsuyu and karashi (mustard). I planned on using the tsuyu and forgoing the mustard, as its strong flavor might overpower the nattō-ness of my nattō. I chopped up some green onion and took a deep breath before lifting open the Styrofoam lid. It would be the last nattō-free breath I would take all day.
And there it was. You don't really need to ask why I was so afraid of nattō, do you?
The deep stink of fermented protein filled the kitchen. But the slippery adventure was only beginning -- I still had to mix my nattō, stirring it around with a pair of chopsticks to make it even more stringy. I wasn't too clear on why this was the desired result, but in the spirit of no-holds-barred nattō consumption, I did it.
After mixing, the beans looked even worse, foamy and viscous, like something you might find on the underside of a lily pad or see in a movie about spawning aliens. Undaunted, I piled them into the small bowl of hot rice, sprinkled on the tsuyu and covered the whole mess in a thick layer of green onions.
And finally, I put the first stinking bite into my mouth. I chewed. It was nutty. Slippery. There was a faint taste of rot, but it was rot I knew I could come to accept and maybe even love, like a very stinky cheese or a friendly zombie. After a couple bites, I added to some daubs of karashi to the mix and found the occasional burning bites even better. Toward the bottom of the bowl, I needed something more, so I pulled out my final Japanese food ally, the mighty umeboshi, and alternated the last bites of beans and rice with nibbles from the tart pickled ume. It was exactly right. I cleaned the bowl.
I had bested nattō. Or had I? My entire apartment reeked of the stuff for the rest of the day. I declare this match a tie.
You should be applauded for your strength of constitution in going straight for the "natto on rice" approach. I am not nearly so brave -- I like natto in a number of forms, but over rice is not one of them.
My favorite way to eat rancid soy beans is in 麻婆納豆 (mabo natto), which I make the same way as mabo tofu, and just add a couple packs of natto in with the tofu. The tobanjan, garlic, and ginger cover up the smell of the natto, and cooking liquid gets rid of the slippery slimyness.
Personally, I think besting natto is worth it for the bragging rights.