The Great Anko Controversy

Oh the controversy, my friends—the controversy of anko.

There are few things that western foreigners living in Japan disagree about more than anko (also called an), the sweetened red bean paste widely used in confections throughout Asia. Most hate it with a passion, I fall into the distinct minority by liking it.

This led to disagreements, strong words were exchanged. It never came to blows, but a few more bottles of Kirin Lager and it just might have. These resident foreigners didn't merely dislike anko, they hated the stuff.

I have a theory about how this came to be. This is what I think happened.

Japan can be a befuddling place for the foreign resident in the beginning, nothing operates the way you expect and while people tend to be kind, it is often hard to get a straight answer. When things become overwhelming, there is an urge to find comfort in something familiar.

This is why almost every foreign resident I know has a story about going to buy a donut or pastry. It looked just like the donuts back home—the ones filled with chocolate or vanilla cream—but when they took a bite they got a mouthful of some sweet bean crap they wanted to spit out. They were feeling down to begin with and this was the final blow. They took it out on the poor anko.

It's not the fault of the anko, it was never trying to be chocolate.

I am one of the lucky ones. I was six years old the first time I went to Japan. I never mistook anko for something it wasn’t, I learned to love it in its own right. It’s no chocolate substitute, but it is good. Much of Asia agrees with me. In the markets you can see packets and tins filled with the stuff.



Anko is made from a paste of adzuki beans mixed with sugar. It’s used to fill any number of sweet pastries in Japan, Korea, and China. The sweetened beans can be mixed into ice cream or put on top of a sno-cone. There’s a sweetened bean dessert soup that is often served with pieces of toasted mochi floating on it. You might think anko is a healthy dessert, but just think how much sugar it takes to turn a bean sweet.

There are plenty of ways to eat your anko, but my very favorite way is wrapped up in daifuku mochi.



Mochi, for those of you who’ve not encountered it, is a smooth paste made from pounding Japanese sticky rice. In the old days—and still sometimes out in the country—mochi was made in a hollowed out tree stump and pounded with a wooden mallet. Two people must make the mochi, one to pound and the other to quickly stick their hands in between the mallet-falls and turn the mochi. This sounds and even looks dangerous, but you get a good rhythm going and it can be quite fun. I’ve done it myself.

These days, most people make their mochi in an electric mochi maker that pounds the crap out of it. Or they buy it in the store.

Fresh mochi is wonderful—a supple soft and chewy substance that the Japanese say is like a baby’s thigh (or maybe the baby’s thigh is like mochi, I can't quite remember). It’s a soft pillow, chewy enough to hold the impression of your finger. On it’s own, fresh mochi has almost no flavor.



In daifuku mochi, that supple rice paste gets wrapped around a pat of anko so that you get this sweet and chewy experience unlike anything I know of outside of Japanese confectionary. You can get daifuku mochi with bean paste that is completely pureed and smooth, or simply mashed for a more rustic experience. I like the rustic myself.

There is also a special variety called ichigo daifuku that has a strawberry hidden inside. I like these too. I’ve heard tell of banana daifuku, but I’ve never seen it myself and I’m wary of the idea. As my friend Megumi says, “Banana and anko do not get along well together.” I’m inclined to believe her.



Every couple of months I go to either Uwajimaya, Seattle’s huge Asian supermarket, or to Central Market in Shoreline, to stock up on Asian foodstuffs. Each time I buy myself a single daifuku mochi as a treat. Both stores carry the same brand, from Japan. As soon as I get home I unwrap it carefully and eat it slowly, savoring every bite. Oh sure, I like chocolate, but in my private world, anko is just as good, in a different way. Especially when it takes the form of daifuku mochi.

I’m afraid I don’t have a recipe for you—I honestly don’t know anyone in Japan who makes these from scratch (though I recently heard that Clotilde was learning how, so I’ll let you know if she posts a recipe; in the meantime, there is this). Daifuku mochi is one of those few things where I just don’t see the point in making my own. Not when such a perfectly good specimen is easily available for sale where I live. If ever I move out of range of an Asian market though, I'd definitely take up the cause.

Also, me and a houseful of daifuku mochi might be a dangerous thing (my thighs might start resembling mochi, and not in a good way). It’s best that I am restricted to one every few months. It’s enough.



But if ever you see daifuku mochi for sale I would encourage you to give it a try. Anko is not chocolate and never will be, but it’s good in its own right. You might hate it, but you might be converted and want to join the small but proud band of non-Asian anko lovers such as myself. When wrapped in fresh mochi, it’s a lovely thing indeed.

In Japanese the word "daifuku" means great luck. I consider it great luck that I like anko. Those other guys are missing out.

PS. For those who want to try their hand at making daifuku mochi, a reader just alerted me to a how-to post on Vegan Yum Yum (thanks, Rita), which makes it look quite simple. I'd love to hear if anyone gives it a go.