Taiyaki (たい焼き)

The charm of taiyaki is ridiculous in the best way: a little sea bream made of cake, its belly full of sweet beans. Don't let the mold frighten you. The fish shape is theatre, yes, but the method is plain: heat the iron well, pour lightly, fill generously, and close it before the batter loses its lift.

The one detail that decides it is the heat of the mold. Too cool, and the taiyaki sticks and turns pale. Too hot, and the outside darkens before the batter sets around the anko. You want a steady medium heat, enough that a drop of batter begins to set on contact, not so fierce that it scorches while you are still finding the tail. A little oil wiped thinly into the grooves helps the fish keep its scales.

Use tsubuan, sweet coarse red bean paste, if you can. The beans should still have shape, because their gentle chew is half the pleasure against the crisp edge of the cake. This is not a formal wagashi for a tea room. It belongs to the street and the walk home, warm in the hand, lucky by pun and by appetite. Honmono doesn't always sit in lacquer. Sometimes it comes out of an iron fish.