Tesshu began to drink the unrefined sake (doburoku) that had just arrived from a nearby farm, out of a wooden sake cask, pairing it with salted rice-bran pickles (nukazuke) of eggplant and daikon radish, also harvested by the local farmers.
“I, too, wish to try that sake,” the Emperor declared.
“Please, Your Majesty, do not! Not such a vulgar liquor,” Hironao interjected, attempting to restrain the Emperor. “It is poison to your imperial body. Genuine sake must always be the refined brew of Nada. Furthermore, regarding pickles, we have prepared senmaizuke and shibazuke brought over from Saikyo (as Kyoto was called at the time, in contrast to Tokyo). If you consume such mud-soaked cellar pickles, you will surely upset your stomach and suffer a wretched hangover.”
“How could that be, Hironao? During my travels through the Tohoku region this year, I drank plenty of that sort of white, cloudy, bubbling liquor, fresh from the brewed rice. I also ate the delicacies presented to me in each region. Every one of them was a rare treat.”
Four years prior, Emperor Meiji had boarded a warship to cruise the western provinces, including Nagasaki. This year, he had journeyed by land through various regions of Ou, crossing the Tsugaru Strait to reach Hakodate, before returning by ship to Yokohama in July.
The Emperor twirled his imported Western wine glass between his fingertips, silently prompting Tesshu. Tesshu scooped the cloudy doburoku with a wooden ladle and poured it into the glass.
“Delicious. Which sake brewer made this?”
As everyone remained silent, a farmer who had been waiting humbly at the edge of the clearing answered, “It is from Himonya Village, in Ebara District, Your Majesty.”
“Are you the brewer?” The man nodded in silence. “Do not be reserved. Come closer.” At the Emperor’s beckoning, the man shuffled forward on his knees, inching toward the imperial presence.
“It has a rich taste of rice. This must be from this year’s harvest, yes?”
The peasant smiled warmly and replied, “Indeed it is, Your Majesty. It was harvested from my own fields in Itabashi Village, Toshima District. Thanks to the blessings of the heavens, we enjoyed a bountiful harvest again this year.”
“I see. A bounty of Musashino, given by the Sumida River,” the Emperor said, raising his glass high. “My ministers, this is the true Festival of Niiname.”
The color drained from Hironao’s face so suddenly it was as if one could hear the sound of it leaving. To him, the Emperor’s conduct was utterly unprecedented, breaking every established boundary of imperial decorum.
Yet, the gathered ministers raised their cups in unison, answering with a resounding “Oh!”
The Emperor brought the wine glass to his lips with one hand, while using his other hand to pierce a piece of the pickles with a sharp bamboo skewer, savoring the combination alternately with his wine. Everyone gazed upon the sight, their eyes fixed on a spectacle the likes of which they had never seen before.