Onishime (Simmered Assorted Vegetables)
Three characteristics of "Onishime":
1. It draws out the delicate flavors of the ingredients without the use of dashi stock; this style is known as tanmi (subtle flavor).
2. It features kaishiki (decorative leaves) arranged with a prayerful intent.
3. Only ingredients simmered on the very day of serving are used.
⚠️Please proceed below only if you wish to know more details.
For the meal itself, the characteristics mentioned above should provide sufficient information.
The Reverend Soei Yoneda has said that experiencing the season and the atmosphere of the setting is also part of the dining experience.
We hope you thoroughly enjoy the space and the time spent here.
If you remain interested after your visit, please feel free to read the additional information provided here.
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This iconic onishime (simmered vegetable dish) is the first course served in Sankouin’s shojin ryori (Buddhist vegetarian cuisine).
When one thinks of Japanese cuisine, dashi (Japanese soup stock) immediately comes to mind. The concept of umami—derived from this stock—has even become a globally recognized term.
When Ms. Kousyun Nishii(西井香春) first arrived at Sankouin, she was struck by the temple's unique approach to dashi.
Like many others, she had previously assumed that shojin ryori was synonymous with Japanese cuisine, and by extension, with the use of dashi.
Dashi is a tricky element; simply looking at a finished dish often makes it impossible to tell whether it has been used.
Indeed, even at renowned shojin ryori establishments in Japan, it is not uncommon for the stock to contain seafood-based ingredients (this is stated merely as a fact, not as a criticism).
In contrast, the onishime served at Sankoin contains absolutely no dashi whatsoever.
Why is that?
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In the world of cooking, the five tastes, or "Gomi", are well known. *1
Sankouin, on the other hand, has long placed great importance on the "sixth taste," known as rokumi.
Light taste refers to the taste of the material itself. Of course, this bland taste is not exactly a taste 👅. *2
At Sankouin (Takenogosho School), we routinely share the charm of the taste of vegetables using expressions that are not directly connected to taste, such as ``quiet'' and ``distant.'' This is sometimes misunderstood as being plain, bland, or rustic, but this is not the case.
Delicate flavor does not equal weak taste.
On the other hand, the reality is that delicacy is easily interfered with by other elements and easily covered up.
If you use dashi soup, the better the soup stock, the more flavorful the soup will be. That would not bring out the flavor of the vegetables or bring out the charm of the vegetables, so we purposely choose not to use dashi stock.
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It seems that the number of vegans in Japan is on the rise. Among the staff at Sankouin, too—while the strictness of their adherence varies—there are quite a few vegans.
Because vegans often maintain strict standards regarding sugar production methods (particularly concerning white sugar), some choose to avoid sugar altogether.
In contrast, the Gosho-ryū style of shōjin ryōri (Buddhist vegetarian cuisine) upheld by Sankouin has a unique history; as the temple was historically supported by a substantial rice stipend（Support from the imperial family, the aristocracy, and—depending on the era—the samurai class.）, it was in a position to use sugar relatively liberally—even in eras when the ingredient was extremely precious. Consequently, Sankoin has no hesitation about using sugar. Indeed, there are many differences between veganism and traditional shōjin ryōri.
With that context in mind, let us turn to onishime (simmered vegetables).
Take burdock root, for instance. The burdock served at Sankouin is said to be remarkably tender and sweet, yet we never pound it or add sugar. We simply draw out the vegetable's natural sweetness.
So, how do we achieve this?
We do not peel the burdock or soak it in water to remove its astringency, as doing so would cause it to lose its distinctive character. Instead, we scrub off the mud with a brush and immediately cut it into bite-sized pieces.
Then, we begin simmering it in a generous amount of water. As it cooks, the burdock’s nutrients leach into the liquid. We continue to simmer the mixture until the burdock reabsorbs those nutrients—essentially cooking it down until the liquid has completely evaporated. Boiling a dish down until the liquid is entirely gone is a rather unusual technique for this type of simmered cuisine.
Depending on the heat level, the simmering process takes roughly three and a half to four hours each day. At Sankouin, we serve only dishes prepared that very day. While people often imagine simmered dishes being cooked in massive batches, we prepare all the ingredients for our nimono (simmered dishes) fresh each day.
The crucial factor isn't the clock, but rather simmering the liquid down until it has completely evaporated. The time required can vary based on the heat—though it cannot be rushed too much—and this flexibility allows us to manage the timing for other dishes as well. However, reducing the liquid until it is gone carries a constant risk of burning the food. Yet, we cannot simply stand over the pot the entire time; as this is a Zen nunnery, our duties extend far beyond just cooking.
Once the liquid has been reduced to the very limit—just shy of burning—we finish the dish by seasoning it with toasted sesame seeds and raw soy sauce. (Though, truth be told, there are times when we do end up burning it. 😢)
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It is through such a combination of ingenuity, technique, and time that these subtle flavors are drawn out. This cuisine is distinct from the plain, austere meals associated with monastic training—though at Sankouin, we do serve and partake in such training meals on a regular basis. It stands apart from simple, bland fare.
The same principle applies to the other ingredients used.
It was the Reverend Soei Yoneda who first introduced the world to the menus of the Takenogosho-ryu style of shojin ryori (Buddhist vegetarian cuisine), a tradition spanning 680 years. However, the specific quantities of seasonings are not recorded in many of the recipes; instead, the Reverend Yoneda articulated the approach to these dishes through the philosophy of shokuzen(食禅)—the practice of Zen through dining.
"Even with the same type of vegetable from the same region, sugar and moisture content vary. To assume one can cook them deliciously using the exact same seasoning ratios and cooking times shows a lack of humility; one must observe the specific vegetables right in front of one's eyes." These are the words of the monk Soei Yoneda.
While the practice of shokuzen (Zen dining) encompasses great breadth and depth, this principle serves as a fundamental basis. Although Sankoin often provides recipes in its publications and cooking classes—recognizing that a lack of guidelines might seem unhelpful—these recipes are intended merely as rough guides.
The same applies to onishime (simmered vegetables). Take pumpkin, for instance: naturally, if it is already sweet, there is no need to add sugar, yet one might add some if the season or the vegetable's origin makes it necessary.
The same applies to koya-dofu (freeze-dried tofu). While it is an ingredient, it is not a vegetable; however, because we consider the tofu itself to possess its own inherent flavor—akin to a stock—we do not cook it in additional dashi broth. We simmer it for a long time until the texture is perfectly smooth, then allow it to cool very gradually at room temperature while carefully maintaining its shape.
Simmered dishes develop their flavor as they cool, but the ideal temperature is room temperature. While serving dishes piping hot or ice-cold can be a treat depending on the season, our standard practice—at least for onishime (simmered vegetable assortments)—is to let the dish settle to room temperature before serving.
A distinctive element of this onishime (simmered vegetable dish) is the norimaki (nori-wrapped roll). It is made using yamato-imo—a type of yam often mistaken for the more common naga-imo (long yam)—wrapped in nori seaweed. While grated yam (*tororo*) is widely enjoyed in Japan, the Takenogosho school of cuisine has roots in the refined cooking served to noblewomen, and Zen temple traditions emphasize eating silently. These factors have led to the development of a wide variety of norimaki preparation methods.
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🌱About Kaishiki（Leaves not intended for eating）
A fundamental rule of shojin ryori (Buddhist vegetarian cuisine) is that everything placed on the plate must be edible; the principle is to avoid wasting any form of life.
However, Sankouin maintains a culinary tradition of adorning plates with leaves and flowers—a practice known as kaishiki or kazaribana (decorative flowers).
While some temples began imitating kaiseki restaurants by decorating dishes with plants and flowers in the post-war era, Sankouin’s shojin ryori—rooted in the traditions of bikuni-gosho (convents established by imperial princesses)—is believed to be the only instance where this practice existed as an original culinary tradition.
It is said that when exchanging gifts—whether between bikuni-gosho or with the aristocracy (including the Imperial Court and the families from which the nuns originated)—seasonal produce was never sent alone; instead, it was always accompanied by seasonal plants or flowers.
Sankouin still yields an abundance of produce. We harvest more than enough—such as ginkgo nuts—to serve our guests; however, when we send some as a gift to others, we never send them alone. We always include ginkgo leaves in the package.
Furthermore, Sankouin has been described by European media as "Zen on a plate," so we never place plants or flowers on a dish merely for visual appeal; there is always a specific significance behind them.
Take, for instance, the leaf placed on this first dish. It is known as kaishiki; it is not intended to be eaten.
These are nanten (heavenly bamboo) leaves gathered from the shrine grounds. But why nanten?
In the past, the causes of what we now call food poisoning were unknown. People would consume the same ingredients prepared in the same way, yet sometimes suffer severe physical harm. In certain eras, such afflictions were attributed to evil spirits.
The use of nanten here stems from the belief in the spiritual power of words (*kotodama*).
To simply call it a play on words based on homophones might seem clinical, and in modern times, it might even be dismissed as a mere "dad joke."
However, there has long been a belief that words sharing the same pronunciation but possessing different meanings share a profound connection.
Against this backdrop, the plant nanten came to embody the meaning of "turning away misfortune" (*nan wo tenjiru*).
The very first dish served embodies a prayer: "May this meal be enjoyed safely and without incident."
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※1
In fact, there are differences between the world of shojin ryori (Buddhist vegetarian cuisine) at Sankoin and the world of general culinary schools. A prime example is spiciness—specifically, whether it is perceived as a taste sensation or as a form of pain.
Sweetness (detection of sugars, which serve as energy sources)
Saltiness (maintenance of minerals and electrolytes)
Sourness (avoidance of spoiled or unripe food)
Bitterness (avoidance of toxins and harmful substances)
Umami (detection of proteins and amino acids)
These constitute the five basic tastes.
Meanwhile, the five flavors emphasized at Sankouin are:
sweetness（甘味）, sourness（酸味）, spiciness（辛味）, bitterness（苦味）, and saltiness(salty /鹹味≒塩味)
Although spiciness is technically classified as a sensation of pain, the priority here is placed on the actual sensory experience of spiciness.
Shojin Ryori Correspondence Course (Career College)
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※2
While "fat taste" has been identified as a sixth basic taste, at Sankouin, we do not use fats in our cooking; instead, we have long recognized tanmi—a subtle, delicate flavor—as a distinct sixth taste.
In the world of the tea ceremony, there is a concept written with the same characters but pronounced awami(淡味); this refers to a sense of gradation or nuance. In contrast, tanmi（淡味） refers to the flavor inherent in the ingredients themselves.
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The spelling of 三光院 is "sankouin," not "sankoin." Why is it often spelled as "sankoin"?
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