What is it about cows and cowboys that make us wax rhapsodic? It seems they beget legend and lore, or at least they did in the days when the sight of a herd breaking over a hill, with unshaven, grizzly men on horseback driving them in, could bring a tear to any Pappy’s eye. Maybe because the plains are being eaten up by thousand-acre CEO retreats, or maybe because people think of salad dressing when they hear the word “ranch,” or maybe because of the proliferation of places like Steak ’n Shake—whatever the reason, the romance and appreciation that attend tucking into a beautiful steak have almost disappeared. One may wonder if, in this age of information and globalization, there is any room left for myths and mystery. Enter the Japanese.
In the mid-nineties, rumors and mutterings about a superior breed of beef cattle from the Far East began surfacing in the food world. Soon enough, Kobe beef started popping up on influential menus at astronomical prices, upwards of two hundred dollars per pound. It was said to have a mind-boggling texture and flavor, unrivaled by any steak one could sink one’s teeth into in the U.S. Along with the beef came the stories: tales of secret Japanese traditions, including cows fed with beer, massaged with sake, and soothed with classical music. It seemed fantastic, and not at all cowboy-ish. The New Age myths began to take hold. Could a soused cow be the secret to heavenly steak? A sake massage might do many of us well and turn around our disposition, but can it make us tastier? Is it possible that the beef’s divinity comes from inebriated bovine divas sloshing in Sapporo? Or is it simply a matter of genetics?
Japanese history tells of cattle imported in the second century as labor animals to aid in rice cultivation. Because of the mountainous terrain, their passage was slow, leading to small, pocketed herds among isolated villages. Cross-breeding was common until the early 1600s, when the Shogun officially closed the national herd due to unwanted foreign influences. It has remained closed to this day, except for a brief period of importation during the Meiji Restoration in the late 1800s.
These mysterious cattle, known as Wagyu (“wa” meaning Japanese and “gyu” meaning cow), are the breed that provides the famed Kobe beef. As with Champagne and Parmigiano Reggiano, however, the criteria for true Kobe beef is partly geographic. The Wagyu must come from the Hyogo Prefecture, whose capital city is Kobe, and also conform to traditions and strict standards of the Prefecture Council.
Isolated herdsmen of each region within Hyogo tended to develop distinctive breeding and feeding traditions, which they are still hard-pressed to reveal. Some have hinted that feeding the cattle beer stimulates their appetites during the warm months. Others claim that sake simply makes the hide attractively shiny, thereby fetching a higher price for the beast. Whatever they may be, the enchanted techniques of the Kobe herdsmen deliver not only on flavor, but also on softness. More than merely tender, Kobe beef is supremely velvety; it has been and still is the standard bearer for highest quality in the world.
When you first look at a cut of Kobe beef, your extra-lean training from the supermarket may give you pause. The meat is richly streaked with white fat (the good, unsaturated kind, for those still cautious about the “F” word), which means that it is luxuriously and audaciously jammed with flavor. Kobe beef is unlike any other steak, and to cook it as such would ruin it. To keep all of its precious fat and flavor from seeping out, the beef is best prepared by simply searing, as you might a steak of ahi tuna. So if you’re the type who orders a filet mignon well done with a side of ketchup, save your money for therapy.
One way the Japanese enjoy Kobe is in the traditional teppanyaki style, by searing on a steel hot plate, or teppan. Two restaurants in the Uptown area, Tonic and Chino Latino, will let you try this on your own, providing sashimi-style slices of Kobe and a hot stone on which to cook it. That said, heed my warning: sear quickly and eat. As for the increasingly popular Kobe burgers, I have yet to find a local version that even comes close to the perfection of one that I ate in Indianapolis (of all places) last year. (If you’re going to serve the King of Burgers, make sure it’s not overcooked, and appears with the right kind of company—no cheap lettuce or flimsy tomatoes as garnish.) The newly opened Mission in the IDS Center, however, is turning out a pastrami made with Kobe beef, and it is all that you hope it to be.
It is largely believed that the genetic predisposition of the Wagyu breed—not just the Kobe strain—produces a higher percentage of unsaturated fats than any other breed, leading to the white, streaky marbling that packs each bite with flavor. Americans are counting on this important fact, because unless you are physically in Japan, the “Kobe” beef you are eating probably came from Wagyu cows in Oregon. Does that mean the geisha girls giving sake hoof massages wear fleece and drink double espressos? Most likely, since there has been a ban on Japanese beef imports since 2001.
However, American Wagyu producers have been working for more than twenty years to perfect Japanese traditions in creating their Kobe(-style) beef. Eventually, it will be known by its correct name—Wagyu—but in its infancy with the American palate, “Kobe” has become the word that most people understand. Comparisons of the American version with true Japanese Kobe have generated much discussion and many opinions, all of which have been duly inflamed by national pride and a two-way beef trade embargo. I say we duke it out cowboy style, over bourbon and karaoke.
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