Sanshu Mikawa Mirin — A Taste of True Hon-Mirin Worth Discovering

Ever since I discovered Sanshu Mikawa Mirin, my appreciation for Japanese cuisine has grown deeper.

Maybe you’d call it a quiet support behind the scenes?
Hmm… not quite.
To me, it feels more like a quiet warmth—gently offered from the background.

It’s like something that brings out softness in both taste and heart—
and the more I cooked with it, the more I felt that quiet joy.

Mirin is often called an essential ingredient in Japanese cooking.
But to be honest, I never really understood why.

Why not just use sugar and sake instead?
Even when I used mirin, it didn’t seem to make much of a difference…
In fact, I sometimes preferred leaving it out altogether.
To me, mirin was just something I had in my pantry because I was Japanese.

That changed when I took a course on fermented foods.

I learned that mirin was originally a kind of luxurious sweet rice liquor—something people used to actually drink.

I remember thinking,
“What? People used to drink this stuff?”

Honestly (and I’m sorry to say this),
my first reaction was: “It can’t be that tasty, right?” 😅

But then I found out the truth.

What I had been using wasn’t real mirin at all—
it was actually mirin-style seasoning.

Even when a bottle says “hon-mirin” (real mirin),
some products turn out to have added sugars or artificial flavorings to create the sweetness.

And honestly, I found myself thinking,
“Wait… this still counts as hon-mirin?”

Real hon-mirin is made with just three ingredients:
glutinous rice, rice koji, and authentic shochu.
It is aged slowly for more than a year, and contains about 14% alcohol.
Under Japanese law, it’s actually classified as an alcoholic beverage.

In contrast, “mirin-style seasoning” is not considered sake.
It’s a processed seasoning made with sweeteners and additives designed to mimic real mirin.

The first time I used Sanshu Mikawa Mirin,
I felt the meaning of “hon-mirin” not in my head—but in my senses.

Yes, it does help dishes retain shape and absorb flavor.
Those are real, practical effects.

But there’s something more. Something deeper.

Of course, it makes food more delicious.
But beyond that—

I felt this warm, quiet reassurance.
Like something was gently holding me.

That sense of “being cared for by something real”
made me truly happy.

Mirin isn’t just sweet.

It’s modest, warm, reliable—
like a grandmother in a kappōgi apron, tasting a dish and smiling,
“Mm, that’s just right.”

That quiet, supportive presence—
that’s what mirin feels like to me.

Today, only a handful of makers still produce true, traditional mirin in Japan.
Let’s keep passing on the flavors of this beautiful culinary heritage.
And little by little, I’d love to share more about mirin from other breweries, too.

Behind every bottle of “seasoning” lies someone’s time, care, and tradition.
Just remembering that makes me feel more grateful for the meals in front of me each day.