Sansai Tempura (山菜の天ぷら, mountain vegetable tempura)

Sansai, mountain vegetables, arrive before spring becomes comfortable. Tara no me, kogomi, fuki no tō: buds and curled shoots with the slight bitterness of the mountains still in them. This is shun, the moment at its prime, doing its work. If the vegetables are tight, green, and glistening fresh, the dish is nearly made; if they're limp or tired, no batter will make them honest.

Tempura is the part that makes home cooks stand back. Oil, batter, timing, all of it sounds like ceremony. It isn't difficult, only a little unfamiliar at first. Keep the vegetables dry, the batter cold and barely mixed, and the oil steady. The cold batter sets quickly against the hot oil, making a thin shell before it can drink grease. Stir it smooth and you wake the gluten; fry it too brown and you lose the pale, wild taste you came for.

We serve sansai tempura with salt, not tentsuyu, the usual tempura dipping broth, because the first green bitterness of spring should stay clear. Tentsuyu has its place, but here it would wet the coat and blur the scent. Fry in small batches and send each one out as it is ready: a few pieces built lightly on serving paper, a little salt, a sudachi wedge if you have one. Leave it room. Honmono, the real thing, often looks this modest.