Every kitchen has drawers that over time become a museum for some “game-changing” cooking tools whose existence you’ve completely forgotten about. You know the ones picked up with great gusto, only to be buried beneath peelers, whisks and spare chopsticks. There’s a whole world of memories in there: gifts from friends, novelty items spotted during those aimless strolls in local supermarkets—like that time I bought a set of beautiful wooden spoons in a Bangkok market. Or was it South Korea? In that moment, the spoons felt like the missing tablescape piece for that dinner I was hosting later that week. Of course, the spoons never made it out of the drawer.
But every so often, an object from the now famed drawer makes its way to me, delighting me just like the first time I laid my hands on it. Mine came from Tokyo.
Whenever I am in Japan, I take the time to wander through Tsukiji Outer Market. This market sums up Japan for me—a place so invested in the details of quotidian life. Tucked between stalls selling bonito flakes, knives and ceramics are blink-and-miss-them little stores devoted entirely to graters, tweezers or ladles.
On one such afternoon a few years back, on a post-lunch lazy stroll through the market, I found it. A boringly simple-looking ceramic bowl, and a wooden pestle fashioned from a branch. Nothing about it screamed “Japanese precision”; there was no elaborate mechanism or machinery. Just a humble mortar and pestle, or suribachi and surikogi, as the Japanese call it. I bought it on a whim.
Unlike traditional mortars and pestles that rely on force, the Japanese suribachi works through texture. The bowl has fine grooves etched into its surface, while the wooden pestle crushes ingredients against them, coaxing them gently into releasing their oils and aromas. In Japanese cooking, it is used, among other things, to grind sesame seeds into a fragrant paste, to make dressings such as goma-ae, prepare miso and sesame sauces.
Sometime last year, my house help found the pestle and asked me “Didi yeh lakdi kya hai?” It took me a moment to comprehend what she was holding up, and when I did, I was immediately excited. I was going to throw a salad together, so it felt like a cosmic intervention to find my “new” mortar and pestle right on cue. I toasted and crushed some seeds into the salad, and it turned out to be the showstopper.
The pestle, made from the branch of the sanshō tree, has just enough texture to grip ingredients without damaging the ceramic grooves. I use it most to crush sesame. The difference between pre- and freshly ground sesame seeds is astonishing. Even the simplest bowl of steamed vegetables or noodles gets an upgrade in flavours, in minutes. Not to mention the warm, nutty aroma that fills the kitchen. Sometimes I grind black sesame with flaky sea salt to make a seasoning. Other days it helps me put together a quick Goma dressing with soy sauce, mirin and rice vinegar for a bowl of cold soba noodles.
Now I reach for my beloved mortar and pestle almost daily, especially in the mornings. I begin my day by grinding fresh cardamom, black pepper and a little cinnamon into my coffee beans. Then there are the times I make the good ol’ pesto. Basil leaves, toasted pine nuts, garlic, Parmesan and olive oil, all crushed slowly till they become a rustic paste with a bite.
Now that I’ve discovered the joy of watching ingredients break down gradually instead of disappearing into the anonymous roar of a food processor, I can’t go back. My mortar and pestle work wonders on curry spices, too. Coriander seeds, cumin and black pepper release entirely different flavours when crushed just moments before cooking. Suddenly, a simple dal has a newfound depth of flavour, while an unassuming sabzi becomes a gourmet dish. And because the bowl is so small, it encourages cooking in small moments rather than big productions. Just a pinch of Sichuan pepper for noodles, or fresh fennel seeds for roasted vegetables. No plugging devices into sockets, no attachments, no washing multiple jars later (pretty much the worst part of cooking).
In a world obsessed with smart gadgets and increasingly complicated appliances, there is something beautiful about an object that has remained largely unchanged for centuries. I feel like it’s made me more intentional in the kitchen, slowing down to enjoy the process with its textures, aromas and sounds.
These are the discoveries I treasure most from my travels— the objects hidden inside tiny shops, all meant to improve everyday life. They bring me so much joy. Whenever I open that often forgotten kitchen drawer now, I wonder what I’ll find next. I hope it’s something that tells a fantastic tale, and costs less than a lunch in Japan.
Aditi Dugar is the co-founder and director of Urban Gourmet India, which operates Masque, Paradox, Sage & Saffron, TwentySeven Bakehouse and Circle Sixty-Nine.