Kyōtamba

Saving the best for last, five stars for a bag of roasted chestnuts. Why? Simply put, while gorging on them, I finally understood why the food of Japan is so good.
The roasted chestnut. No seasoning. No sauces. Warm, aromatic. Its texture soft with a silky mouth feel. A bite. This one exudes a gentle sweetness with the slightest hint of smoky bitterness. The next, even sweeter. The next, almost neutral sweetness with an almost acrid finish of roasting. With each, a greater and greater understanding of the natural variation and true flavor of the chestnut. An appreciation and understanding that cannot be experienced if any other ingredient was allowed to get in the way.
Apply this to any dish. Ingredients have purpose in their singularity. Each is meant to be tasted and its individual flavor savored. Each bite combines different amounts of each ingredient making each different from the last. This is contrary to Western cuisine where ingredients are combined to produce background notes, or subtle, supporting flavors.
From the piece of tofu with its milky texture and pure soy taste topped with whole bean miso with its own fermented flavor to the most luxurious piece of fugu from a Michelin three, with the user added, varying amounts of monkfish liver and scallion with a dip in a citrusy ponzu. Each bite different. Each a unique expression of flavor.
From a «chicken soup» having remained unchanged for 350 years and nine generations, to incredible beef sukiyaki prepared the same way since 1829, to a pastry from 1860 that defines Meiji Japan; zen simplicity and the appreciation for what is.
«The Japanese call it shibui, simplicity devoid of unnecessary elements. Only the good stuff. The object of desire itself. Everything else gone. Empty air. The space between.» — Anthony Bourdain.
So yes, five stars for a roasted chestnut.