Tonjiru: pork, miso and the roots of winter
Pork belly, burdock, daikon and taro, simmered in dashi and finished with miso. Tonjiru is the miso soup that eats like a meal.
If miso soup is the quiet companion at the side of a meal, tonjiru (豚汁) is the friend who turns up with arms full and stays for dinner. It starts from the same place, dashi and miso, and then adds pork and a whole basket of root vegetables until the bowl is almost more filling than the rice beside it.
It is cosy, unpretentious food, and in cold weather I can think of few things in Japanese home cooking that are more welcome.
Tonjiru or butajiru?
The first thing to know is that the dish has two names, written the same way. The kanji 豚汁 mean "pork soup", and the first character can be read either ton or buta, both meaning pork. So you will hear both tonjiru and butajiru.
Which one people say depends partly on where they grew up and partly on habit, and it is the subject of plenty of friendly argument. Either is correct, and nobody will misunderstand you.
What goes in the pot
There is no single recipe, and every household has its own version. But a typical tonjiru includes most of these:
- Pork: thinly sliced pork belly is the classic choice, because its fat melts into the broth and gives it a rich, rounded taste.
- Daikon: white radish, cut into thin quarter-rounds, which turns soft and sweet.
- Carrot: for colour and more sweetness.
- Gobo (ごぼう): burdock root, a long, earthy root often shaved into thin slivers. It gives tonjiru much of its woodsy, distinctive aroma, and to me it is what makes the soup taste like tonjiru rather than miso soup with pork in it.
- Satoimo (里芋): taro, small and slightly slippery, which thickens the broth a little as it cooks.
- Konnyaku (こんにゃく): bouncy konjac jelly, often torn into pieces rather than cut, so the rough edges catch more flavour.
- Tofu or aburaage, fried tofu, for softness and body.
Many cooks also add onion, potato, sweet potato, mushrooms or green onion, depending on the season and what is in the kitchen. That flexibility is half the charm.
How it comes together
The method is simple and forgiving. Often the pork is first stir-fried briefly in a little oil, sometimes sesame oil, which renders some of the fat and adds a toasty note. The root vegetables go in next and get coated in that fat. Then comes dashi, and everything simmers until the vegetables are tender. Some cooks skip the stock entirely and let the pork and vegetables flavour plain water.
As with any miso soup, the miso is dissolved in at the end, and the pot should not boil hard afterwards, or the miso's aroma fades. Any kind of miso works. A darker, saltier one gives a deeper bowl and a sweeter one a gentler bowl; our guide to miso types can help you choose.
To finish, add a scattering of chopped green onion and a shake of shichimi (七味), a seven-spice chilli blend that brings a little warmth and a citrusy lift. It suits the fatty pork perfectly. Add it a pinch at a time, though, because it builds.
A soup for crowds and cold days
Tonjiru is a soup that scales. It is easy to make in a huge pot, it reheats well (plenty of people insist it is better the next day), and it feeds a crowd from a few humble ingredients. Partly for these reasons, it is a familiar sight at community gatherings: winter festivals, school and neighbourhood events, and mochi-pounding get-togethers around New Year. It is also a common dish at the emergency soup kitchens set up after natural disasters, where a hot, filling bowl is exactly what is needed.
You will meet it in restaurants too. Tonkatsu shops often offer tonjiru as the soup with a set meal, sometimes as an upgrade from plain miso soup, and the rich pork broth stands up well to a crisp cutlet. At some set-meal restaurants, a big bowl of tonjiru with rice and pickles is a satisfying meal all by itself.
Eat it the way you would any miso soup: lift the bowl, sip from the rim, and use your chopsticks for the pork and vegetables. Give it a stir first, because the miso and fat settle.
What I find most appealing about tonjiru is how generous it is. Nothing in it is expensive or rare. It is pork, roots and miso, the ordinary things of a winter kitchen. Put together slowly and served hot, they add up to something that feels much more like care than cooking.