Yuzu

Salt and glutamate anchor a perfume that would otherwise float straight off.

Kombu glutamate gives the sharpness a savoury floor; the citrus becomes seasoning.

Lean white flesh, no fat to fight the perfume. Zest, not juice, on the sashimi.

Cold citrus oil on hot bland root; the peel does what a herb would elsewhere.

Whole sliced peel cured in honey, then hot water. Korea drinks this all winter.

Ginjo esters and yuzu peel run parallel; the acid gives the rice wine an edge.

The blend already contains dried peel; fresh zest makes the chilli read floral.

Sweet raw shellfish plus a citrus with pine in it. Salt is the only other addition.

Cocoa butter holds the perfume; the acid stops the fat from coating the mouth.

Peel oil lifts a squash that sits low and heavy in the mouth.

Peel oil cuts the beany green note that puts people off soy.

Peel shaved over the bowl at the last second: perfume on top of steam.

Zest only. The mushroom cannot survive a second acid in the bowl.

Zest, not juice. Peel oil lifts the cinnamate pine; juice would just wash it out.

Aromatic citrus oil sits in fat far better than citrus juice ever does.

Sharp peel oil cuts through the savoury weight without thinning the colour.

Pear has no acid; yuzu peel gives it the sharpness and keeps it Japanese.

The peel oil is sharp enough to survive a pulp this thick. Juice is not.

Both are volatile and both die in heat. Shave one, grate the other, serve at once.

Grapefruit bitterness against iodine. Sharper and stranger than a mignonette.

Sharp citrus peel against pepper-water; the Kyoto pickle in one line.

Rind oil over sweet mineral flesh. Juice would just make it wet.

Nutty solids under a pine-citrus perfume; the beurre noisette starts tasting green.

Roast bitterness and peel bitterness are the same note at different frequencies.