Kenchinjiru: Soup Lessons from the Zen Temple Next Door

Kenchōji also appears in one explanation of the soup’s name: Kenchō-jiru, the temple’s soup, is said to have become kenchinjiru. Another account traces the name to kenchin, a dish associated with Chinese-influenced cooking. Whatever the word’s route into Japanese, the restaurant had gone straight to the neighbouring temple for its cooking instructions.

It had gone there for its name as well: Yoshida chose it. Tenshin (点心) comes from a Zen expression for putting a little food into an empty stomach. Read in Cantonese, the same word becomes dim sum. No dumplings were involved.

Some of that flavour develops before any broth goes into the pot. In the temple’s version, the vegetables are first sautéed in sesame oil, then simmered in stock made with kombu seaweed and shiitake. This is shōjin ryōri, Japanese Buddhist vegetarian cooking: the stock, as well as the visible ingredients, is plant-based.

Each February, at Kenchōji’s Setsubun ceremony, the people who throw beans to drive out bad luck sit down to kenchinjiru. At Tenshin-an, being hungry was sufficient.

The tofu comes with a lesson of its own. A trainee monk on kitchen duty at Kenchōji is said to have dropped some, and the founding abbot, Rankei Dōryū, picked up the broken pieces, rinsed them and put them in the soup. That is said to be why the tofu in kenchinjiru is crumbled by hand rather than cut. Tenshin-an still crumbles it. The lesson was about not wasting food. The trainee presumably learned a second one.

Beside the soup, the shio musubi, or salt-seasoned rice balls, were just as satisfying in a quieter way. The rice was beautifully cooked, the grains holding together without losing their individual texture. There was no filling to work towards. The rice had to justify the whole rice ball, and it did.

Salt supplied the seasoning, and the strip of nori gave each mouthful a little more flavour. Moving between the plain rice and the richer broth, with the side dishes in between, was a pleasure in itself. I would happily return for this lunch without needing a temple visit as an excuse.

It was beautiful, even with the ingredients plainly visible: vanilla and matcha ice cream, castella, and matcha pudding underneath. The pleasure was partly in that mismatch. These were familiar sweets, arranged to resemble something I would normally be careful not to tread on.

Getting to the pudding required a less delicate attitude towards the landscape.

There was a full-sized garden at the back of the restaurant, too. Beyond the dining area, a tatami room provided a space for zazen, Zen seated meditation. Visitors could also simply enjoy the view.

The dim room made the greenery outside seem especially bright. Stepping stones crossed the low ground cover, with leaves crowding around them and moss spreading over the rocks. Cushions were laid out on the tatami, inviting visitors to sit quietly and take it all in.