If you’ve spent any time around Japanese food, you’ve almost certainly eaten anko (pronounced AHN-KOH), even if you didn’t quite realize what it was at the time. Red bean paste doesn’t make much noise or call attention to itself in the same way that, say, raw fish does. It isn’t flashy, trendy, or aggressively sweet. It just… shows up, quietly, in places you’d least expect, at least if your idea of dessert was shaped by Western candy.
At its most basic, anko is made from azuki beans and sugar. That’s it. The beans are cooked, softened, and sweetened, then mashed or left whole depending on style. Compared to chocolate or caramel, it can seem austere. Compared to Western candy, it’s almost restrained. And that restraint is part of the point.
The most famous anko delivery system is probably anpan: a soft bread roll filled with sweet red bean paste. To a Western palate, bread plus beans sounds wrong, at least until you try it, then it just makes sense. Anpan sits in that uniquely Japanese middle ground between snack and meal, sweet but not dessert-sweet, filling without being heavy.
There’s also a pop-culture footnote worth mentioning. Anpanman, one of Japan’s most enduring children’s characters, is literally powered by anpan. When someone needs help, he tears off a piece of his own head and gives it to them for energy. It’s strange, sweet, and oddly appropriate. Anpan isn’t a treat you hoard, it’s something you share. A good message for kids, eh?
If anpan is everyday comfort, taiyaki is anko’s street-food celebrity. Shaped like a fish and cooked in iron molds, taiyaki is crisp on the outside and warm inside, with anko traditionally at the center. These days you’ll see custard, chocolate, and even cheese fillings, but anko remains the baseline flavor against which all the others are measured.
Beyond those two, anko quietly anchors much of wagashi, traditional Japanese sweets. Dorayaki, which you probably know if you’ve ever watched an episode of Doraemon, manjū, daifuku, ohagi, monaka, and so on. The list is long, and anko wears many textures. Smooth koshian is refined and elegant. Chunky tsubuan feels rustic and honest. Neither is “better”; they simply express different moods.
One thing that surprises many first-timers is how not sweet anko is. Obviously this varies. Cheaper anko is usually sweeter, and when people make it themselves they may use more sugar (I can’t eat the anko my mother-in-law makes — it’s way too sweet), but generally speaking it is much less sweet than Western candy. Historically, sugar was expensive in Japan, and sweets were luxuries. Even today, anko aims for balance rather than indulgence. It pairs naturally with bitterness — green tea in particular — and feels designed to be eaten slowly, thoughtfully, without the sugar crash that defines so many modern snacks.
That may be why anko endures. It hasn’t been optimized for dopamine hits or novelty flavors. It fits neatly into daily life: something you eat on the way to work, during a break, or while sitting quietly with tea. It doesn’t demand attention; it rewards it.
If Japanese sweets feel confusing or underwhelming at first, anko is often the missing context. It isn’t trying to be candy. It isn’t trying to impress you. It’s just there—steady, familiar, and deeply woven into the texture of everyday Japan.
If you have a Japanese grocery nearby your house, I urge you to stop by and ask the clerk for some anpan. If you do, let me know what you think.
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David is an American teacher and translator lost in Japan, trying to capture the beauty of this country one photo at a time and searching for the perfect haiku. He blogs here and at laspina.org. Write him on Bluesky. |