The yaki-imo man

Winter brings the tang of wood smoke and the plaintive cry of the yaki-imo man to the city's street corners. Of course, you've got to be standing close enough to singe your nose on the pushcart stovepipe to catch a whiff of that rustic perfume, but some of us, like winter moths, are drawn to the orange glow of an open flame on a blue winter's evening.

Nakayama-san has been selling roasted sweet potatoes for close to forty years. His face is tanned and wrinkled -- weathered from working outside day after day. Selling yaki-imo he does only in wintertime -- in summer he sells ice candy. A small wiry fellow with nearly seventy winters on his back, Nakayama is one of the lucky few who strikes a balance with nature and work: offering to the passerby warmth in winter, coolness in summer.

Unlike most vendors these days, who rent the whole caboodle -- cart, stones, taped song -- Nakayama owns his outfit. This fireplace-on-wheels with its load of wood stowed on the lower shelf, the steel firebox, the roasting pan filled with stones, and the boxes of potatoes stacked topside totals some 200 kilograms. Pulling and pushing that cart around, especially on slopes is rough work. "Taihen, taihen. It's like muscling Konishiki, that sumo wrestler, to the ground. I work up a sweat," he says, with a quick smile. Other vendors complain of the constant cold, but they are renters. Nakayama, a seasoned soul, says his fire keeps him warm.

Some vendors let their potatoes roast on a wire grill above the heated stones. This is easier, but results in a rather shriveled, homely spud. Proper "ishi-yaki imo" are roasted by the stones themselves. Nakayama prefers smooth, shiny river pebbles in sizes from pea to walnut for his cooking. With a small, paddle-like square of wood he scoops out a trough, a furrow in the stones, in which he places an uncooked imo. "Beni-azuma" potatoes from Shikoku are the tastiest, he says. (Several unopened boxes full are stacked at his feet.) Then with another paddle he pushes and rakes until the potato is half-buried in hot stones. Ishi-yaki is the best way to cook them, he insists, for the slow heat brings out the sweetness. In about 40 minutes a potato is ready.

In days gone by, Nakayama says, every yaki-imo vendor sang the song -- each with an individual variation on the theme. Nowadays almost no one sings anymore. Nakayama would if the supermarket he sells in front of would allow him to. Also, he doesn't use a scale anymore either to weigh out a potato. People would balk at the price per 100 grams. So he charges a flat 400 yen per potato. His customers are mostly young ladies, he says. He's not sure why.

Nakayama, like most other vendors, fuels his fire with wood donated by wrecking crews from houses they've knocked down with their fell backhoes -- often equipped with fierce pincher-like claws that reach into and through a wall snapping and crunching timbers with abandon.

So it goes, winter after winter, as Nakayama adds a piece of a former home, office, or shop to his fire, the past is consumed and remembered in a fragrant whiff of wood smoke.

--mjk