Umami—
The Fifth Taste

(Umami) “I don’t think that every person in Japan really knows what umami means. Some probably confuse the term with umai, which means delicious but depends on personal preference,” explains Ana San Gabriel. “Let me put it this way: Something can be delicious without umami, but with it, it’s very likely even more delicious.” The scientist, who emigrated from Barcelona to Tokyo in 1994, should know—she has devoted her career to this subject. San Gabriel, a warm woman with short gray hair, teaches and researches at the Umami Information Center (UIC) in Tokyo. We ask the expert: What is umami? Where do we find it? And why is it so incredibly good? “Of the five tastes, this is the most subtle. It shines best with a little salt, though too much salt or sugar can mask it. In the right balance, it creates an absolute wow moment.”

That Umami is so closely associated with Japan is no coincidence. Its discovery is credited to chemist Kikunae Ikeda who, in 1908, succeeded in isolating monosodium glutamate from kelp broth. A year earlier, he had coined the term umami to describe the sensation of savory, delicious taste profiles. The name, originally meant as a placeholder, stuck. “The foundation is the combination of simple molecules essential to all living beings, including amino acids like glutamate and aspartate, as well as ATP (adenosine triphosphate). These occur in every mobile animal organism, including humans. Through eating, these base molecules are converted into taste elements—glutamate and ATP as inosinate. With vegetables, it’s much harder to create umami, except for tomatoes, and even then, mostly in dried form,” San Gabriel explains, pointing to Buddhist monks and their practice of drying shiitake mushrooms.

“At the Umami Information Center, we aim to convey what makes this taste so special. We give lectures, maintain archives, and help chefs develop recipes. Right now, boundaries are being pushed in this regard.”

The Framework of Japanese Cuisine
For some time now, Japan—with its 124 million inhabitants—has been considered the epitome of culinary excellence. The Danish chef René Redzepi temporarily moved his three-Michelin-star restaurant Noma to Kyoto , and scoring a seat at the upscale sushi restaurant Harutaka tops many foodies’ wish lists, as do Japanese knives. In many ways, Japanese cuisine is seen as delicate and subtle—from sashimi kissed with soy sauce to miso soup that delights the taste buds, to the fine nuances of green tea. And yet, in many traditional specialties, that addictive note appears—a taste that defies clear description, unlike sweet, salty, sour, or bitter. The term indirectly refers to other sensations too—kokumi, a mouthfeel of fullness or depth; and kire, clarity and a sharp finish, with a sense of balance. It’s no exaggeration to call umami the architectural backbone of Japanese flavor.

Mantaro Takahashi agrees. “Japan’s geography—with its seafood- and seaweed-rich waters and fermentation-friendly climate—allows for a cuisine where umami isn’t decorative but structural.” Takahashi, a reserved, polite man of 45, is the founder of Shokunin Shoyu, a shop in Maebashi, Gunma Prefecture, that specializes in soy sauce. His products aren’t sold in liter bottles, as is common elsewhere, but in 120-milliliter bottles. He offers about 120 varieties, sourcing them from across the country. Some of his roughly 60 producers use high-tech equipment; others work with wooden barrels. Officially, there are five types of soy sauce (shoyu), made from soybeans and wheat, but for Takahashi—nicknamed Mr. Soy Sauce—the sweet-tasting amakuchi counts as a sixth.

Historically, Japan had limited access to animal fats. In fact, a Japanese emperor banned meat consumption in the 7th century, a prohibition lifted only in 1872. Vegetarian Buddhist monks also had influence. “Umami was a way to create depth of flavor without relying on fat or strong spices.” Added to this is the softness and purity of Japan’s drinking water, which allows delicate flavors to be extracted clearly and respects the natural taste of ingredients. “All this led to a culture of omission rather than addition,” Mantaro Takahashi says. “My countrymen didn’t become umami experts through theory, but because they relied on it every day.”

Take miso paste, for example—made from fermented soybeans and sometimes rice and grains—whose name translates as ‘source of all flavor.’ It comes in colors from white to red, yellow, and dark brown, each with a different intensity. The first versions likely came from Korea or China to Japan as early as the 1st century CE. Traditionally, miso appears in soups, dressings, marinades, and fermentation, but pastry chefs now experiment with it in brownies and ice cream.

Cheese Rarities from Japan
Japan has much more to offer in terms of umami than dashi, miso, and soy sauce. Cheese, for example—Hokkaido is considered a mecca thanks to its high-quality dairy products. One rarity is Shio-Koji cheese, developed by Hanamaruki, a producer of traditional fermented foods, in collaboration with the Chichibu Yamanami Cheese Factory. Instead of rennet, rice koji is used. Hisui, from Atelier de Fromage in Nagano, is a low-moisture blue cheese with a creamy, dense texture and plenty of umami. And then there’s Takesumi, made in Otaki, about an hour southeast of Tokyo, the brainchild of Chiyo Shibata. After studying microbiology and fermentation, Shibata gained experience with French cheesemakers before founding Fromage Sen in 2014. Her Takesumi, awarded silver at the Japanese Cheese Awards, is coated in bamboo ash and features notes of lemon, onion, and fish. Shibata recommends pairing it with sake.

This rice-based spirit is another example of umami. Since 2024, its production has been recognized as an intangible cultural heritage. Sake ranges from clear to milky, young to aged, served hot or cold, and drunk from wooden boxes, bowls, small cups, or wine glasses. Speaking of traditional drinks, let’s not forget matcha—powdered green tea, unmistakable for its grassy-green color and sweet to slightly bitter aroma. Due to global hype and resulting supply shortages, artificial flavors are now often used, similar to dashi production.

Which brings us to our final question for Ana San Gabriel: What about the substance that leads more reliably than anything else to an umami high—the highway compared to the country road of making miso, dashi, and the like? We’re talking about glutamate, a flavor enhancer which is said to impair digestion and cause headaches and nausea. The Umami Information Center researcher has a clear opinion: “Glutamate is everywhere—even in our bodies, about two kilograms of it. I’m not afraid of it; in fact, I use it in cooking, even prefer it to salt. A little added to fish, meat, eggs, or soup works wonders.”