A first lesson in sake with Zaku

At some point on our first morning in Japan, a black minivan with two chauffeurs pulled up outside our hotel in Yokkaichi. It wasn't quite how I had imagined my first visit to a sake brewery would begin.

The rather improbable transport arrangements had been made by a mysterious games entrepreneur whom Henry had befriended over sake in Tokyo the previous evening. They had apparently spent the night discussing a forthcoming sake-and-gaming collaboration, and when the entrepreneur mentioned that he had always wanted to visit a brewery, our small group expanded. He left the Bvlgari Hotel in Tokyo at something like four in the morning, accompanied by two chauffeurs because one driver would otherwise have exceeded the permitted working hours on the return journey. By the time the minivan collected the three of us from our rather more modest hotel in Yokkaichi, the day had acquired a level of luxury none of us had anticipated.

Sanja and I had arrived the previous evening, having flown from London via Hong Kong to Osaka before continuing almost immediately by train to Yokkaichi. The trip had originally been planned around an event in Kobe later that week, but I had mentioned our journey to Henry at fairly late notice and discovered, by happy coincidence, that he would already be in Japan. Henry and I have known each other since our university days at Merton College in Oxford, and he now represents Zaku in Europe alongside a number of other sake- and wine-related projects. I've always wanted to visit a sake brewery so an invitation to see Zaku wasn't particularly difficult to accept - the stars had aligned rather neatly!

The evening began at a random izakaya, where Henry introduced us to Martin Sima. Martin had been working closely with the brewery and helping with production; according to Henry, he was exactly the right person to explain how everything was made. Dinner involved sashimi, pickled cucumber, snails and several other dishes ordered with varying degrees of understanding.

A sake bar followed, where bottles appeared bearing labels I couldn't begin to read. This is perhaps the most honest description of my sake knowledge at the time: I knew that I enjoyed drinking it but, beyond that, I had plenty to learn.

The following morning, our newly assembled group travelled in considerable comfort to Shimizu Seizaburo Shoten in Suzuka, where Zaku is made. The brewery was modern and relatively industrial in appearance, with spotless floors, stainless-steel tanks, pipes and pressing equipment. It was also surprisingly warm. The weather was apparently mild for October, but the brewing process creates its own heat, and there was an unmistakable aroma throughout the building that I can only describe as smelling of sake - sweet, yeasty and slightly earthy.

After putting on some very fashionable hairnets, Martin patiently took us through the entire production process, from the preparation and steaming of the rice to koji production, fermentation and pressing. Coming from a wine background, the most fundamental difference was that rice does not naturally contain fermentable sugar. Its starch must first be converted into sugar by enzymes produced by koji mould, while yeast simultaneously converts that sugar into alcohol. Both processes take place alongside one another in the same fermentation. It sounds relatively straightforward when reduced to a sentence but seeing it in action was something else.

The koji room was particularly memorable. It was intensely warm, with the developing koji generating heat within the rice itself. The care required to manage the temperature, moisture and distribution of the mould made the process feel both highly technical and remarkably physical. At the other end of production, we handled the compacted rice lees left behind after pressing. They were unexpectedly firm - more like solid rice cakes than the soft residue I had imagined.

The laboratory was equally revealing. It was filled with measuring equipment, samples, charts and rows of figures recording the progress of each fermentation. The sake was repeatedly tasted and assessed, but sensory judgement sat alongside a considerable amount of scientific analysis. Almost everything that could reasonably be measured appeared to be measured. That combination was fascinating. Sake brewing may be rooted in centuries of tradition, but there was nothing remotely imprecise about it.

Our timing proved especially fortunate because a large tasting of sake from across Mie Prefecture had taken place the previous day. This meant that close to 100 bottles were already open, and we were invited to try whichever ones interested us. It was extraordinarily generous and slightly overwhelming; even with the best intentions, there comes a point at which unfamiliar Japanese labels begin to merge into one another.

We tasted through much of the Zaku range. Kaizan-Ittekisui was one of my favourites, potentially helped by the fact that I recognised it from Henry’s wedding. I also particularly enjoyed the Impression range, especially Impression N, which had a slight spritz and a freshness that made it immediately appealing. I'm conscious that describing sake entirely through comparisons with wine is not especially useful. Nevertheless, the gentle pétillance gave me something familiar to hold on to while trying to understand a completely different category.

Just when I thought the morning had delivered enough surprises, we were shown the piano. In a beautifully finished tasting room, away from the stainless steel and industrial equipment of the brewery floor, stood a self-playing Steinway & Sons grand piano. Owner Shimizu-san had commissioned music intended to be heard while drinking the brewery’s sake. It was completely unexpected and rather wonderful.

Our visit also coincided with the release of 'The Sake of Mie: Discovering a Sacred Brew', a book to which Henry had created and contributed. We were given a copy that morning, which made the timing feel even more fortuitous.

After the tasting, we climbed back into our highly improbable minivan and headed to Kurama Sand, which Martin insisted was the best sando shop in Japan. I’m not sure I’m qualified to confirm that, but the sandwiches were genuinely excellent - and after a morning spent trying to understand koji and parallel fermentation, exactly what I needed.

The rest of the day was no less varied. We visited a foot spa, walked through the streets of a small historic town and stopped for coffee in a wonderfully calm café overlooking a garden. At one point, we were even invited into a private house containing an extraordinary collection of samurai armour.

Dinner that evening was nabe, filled with salmon and other seafood. It was my first time trying it and, although very enjoyable, I think I still prefer sukiyaki. Naturally, we finished at another sake bar. This one was standing only, which was unexpectedly helpful. By that point, the jet lag had begun to catch up with me, and remaining upright gave me a marginally better chance of staying awake. More bottles appeared, bearing more labels I couldn't read.

It had been less than 24 hours since we landed in Japan. In that time, we had followed sake from rice to glass, tasted an unreasonable number of bottles, listened to a self-playing Steinway, eaten some outstanding sandos and finished the evening standing at yet another sake bar.

For a first day in Japan, it set an unreasonably high standard.