Meet the Japanese Pastry Chef Who Brands His Sweets with a Hot Iron

For the longest time, I thought nothing existed outside of the French pastry world. I thought that Ladurée macarons and made-in-France Chantilly cream were the only things that could sustain my insatiable sweet tooth. When you live inside French borders, it's impossible to go a day without passing by traditional boulangeries-pâtisseries, which are proudly set up on every corner. Faced with such omnipresent businesses peddling French desserts (a search on Yelp yields more than 3,200 results in Paris alone), it takes a certain effort to broaden your horizons and plunge into new territory, tastebuds wide open.

It was high time I open myself up to new pastry possibilities. I was on my way out of a screening of Les Délices de Tokyo (released as Sweet Red Bean Paste in English)—a movie that tells the story of an adorable little grandma and her passion for traditional Japanese cakes—when I was struck with two discoveries that were about to change my way of thinking about dessert. First, a realization: No, not everyone grows up stuffing their faces with Aux Merveilleux de Fred and Parisian brioches. In Japan, for example, kids gorge themselves on dorayaki after school; and tearooms don't serve chocolates like they do in France, but wagashi (small, traditional confections that Japanese people have been eating since the Nara Period). And second, a revelation: Japanese pastries are a fascinating art form, and they have meaning for both the person eating them and the person making them.

Since I was feeling peckish, I headed over to Walaku, one of the only tearooms in the French capital where you can taste the best that Japanese confectionery has to offer.

Walaku is a unique place. Its atmosphere, authentic and a bit austere, differs from other wagashi shops in Paris. In this miniature tearoom that seats only eight, the decor is traditional and the lighting soft. If we are to believe Jun'ichiro Tanizaki's In Praise of Shadows, this cozy, intimate ambiance is a key element in Japanese gastronomy. A kitchen that is draped in shadows and pays obsessive attention to tableware is meant to bring out the mystical nature of the dishes, even a taste of Zen. This preference for darkness explains, in part, why the sheen of French pastries isn't found in traditional Japanese pastries, which opt instead for deep reflections and powdery textures.

Takanori Murata, the head pastry chef here, fulfills the pastry orders while his assistant, Yoshiko Kobayashi, serves the tea. The wagashi on the menu are seasonal; choices are made based on symbolic considerations and the availability of ingredients. In winter, for example, the green tone, triangular shape, and three slashes of the tokiwa-jyoyo reference pine trees and their thorns. The hanabiramochi, a mochi paired with a slice of candied burdock root, is a New Year's specialty. In March, you'll find mochi made with a flour extracted from bracken ferns. Some ingredients are mainstays—most notably, anko, the sweet red bean paste used as filling.

Certain pillars of the French pastry arts are entirely absent in the Japanese pastry kitchen: wheat flour, eggs, and white sugar, to name a few. The dorayaki is one exception: This delicacy consists of two small pancakes (free of air bubbles, unlike American pancakes) that are stuffed with a generous portion of red bean paste. The specialty is evidence that foreign contributions—in this case, from the West—are sometimes introduced to the recipes. The dorayaki—the star of Les Délices de Tokyo—is savored either at teatime, or as a street food. That said, it would be unthinkable for a Japanese person to eat it on the go. They would much rather sit on a street bench and eat it with some milk.

The wagashi craft requires expert handling of the dough for each piece, and the mastery of ancestral gestures and finishing touches: Some mochi are torched, while others are branded with a hot iron, or yaki-in. This final stroke is one of the most impressive things I have ever seen in pastry cuisine. As I watched Takanori Murata in action, he looked to me like a samurai branding his horse with a hot iron—or, more realistically, like a potter inscribing his signature on a piece.

The irons in question are unique objects. Just like teapots, they are custom-made by artisans in Japan. Each displays a seal—some more traditional than others—and their price ranges from 200 to 500 euros, depending on the size. These tools are a far cry from the cheap cookie stamps you can find all over the internet.

In Japan, pastry is clearly divided into two camps: There is Western-inspired pastry, or yogashi, and traditional pastry, or wagashi. This duality is even reflected in the personal history of Takanori-san, Walaku's head pastry chef. From one generation to the next, his family has specialized in traditional Japanese pastry, with the exception of his grandfather, who opted for Western pastry. As for Takanori, he chose the classical route, and better yet, he decided to export it. The Walaku tearoom became a place where he could express himself, an ideal location to have others discover and taste Japanese culture. The sober character of the place cause you to focus all your attention on the food. The appearance, texture, and odorless quality of the dishes are clear markers that this is another truly sophisticated world of desserts.

While French cuisine is all about food and wine pairings, traditional Japanese pastries pair instead with tea, the different perfumes and flavors of which provide contrast alongside the delicate wagashi. The pastries are, in fact, key elements in any traditional Japanese tea ceremony. This extremely ritualistic way of having tea was developed after the plant was brought to Japan from China. Zen Buddhist monks ate wagashi to symbolize the ephemeral nature of all things, and the nutritious snack conveniently fit in with their vegetarian diet.

The pleasure derived from these pastries is not limited to taste alone, but also stems from the opportunity to immerse yourself in another culture. The tea ceremony and its traditional sweets become a window into another aesthetic, exposing you to other flavors. Wagashi allows you to sink your teeth into something other than the globalized and standardized offerings of sushi and ramen. In this regard, they are a far cry from the current, popular go-tos of Japanese cuisine.

On my way out of Walaku, I felt steeped in all the ancestral wisdom that comes with the wagashi experience. I let the power of Zen permeate my being with each bite of the small, joyous delicacies—and that is one flavor I have yet to find inside a macaron.

This article was originally published in French on MUNCHIES FR.