Teapot Clear Soup (松茸の土瓶蒸し, Matsutake no Dobinmushi)

Matsutake announces itself before you taste it. Pine forest, damp leaves, clean earth after rain: this is the point of the dish, and also the reason people make it sound more fearsome than it is. Dobinmushi asks for rare ingredients, yes. The cooking itself is quiet.

The first secret is not technique. It is shun, the season when matsutake is at its prime and its fragrance can carry a whole bowl of clear soup. Scrub it harshly and you lose that fragrance. Slice it too thick and it sits there like a proud little plank. Cut it cleanly, warm it gently in good dashi, and let the teapot hold the aroma until the diner lifts the lid.

We serve dobinmushi as suimono, a clear soup, often in autumn meals when the table is allowed to speak softly. Conger eel gives body, ginkgo nuts give a faint bitter snap, and sudachi at the end sharpens the broth without shouting over it. Nothing hidden. If the matsutake is tired, change the dish. If it is glistening fresh and fragrant, most of your work is already done.