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  3. Sake wa ten no biroku, goes the Japanese saying: Sake is heaven’s reward. For more than a thousand years, the Japanese have reli

Sake wa ten no biroku, goes the Japanese saying: Sake is heaven’s reward. For more than a thousand years, the Japanese have reli

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问题 Sake wa ten no biroku, goes the Japanese saying: Sake is heaven’s reward. For more than a thousand years, the Japanese have relished the delicacy of their fermented rice brew and built their social lives around it. On ceremonial occasions they break open a cedar cask, and the exchange of ritual sake toasts seals wedding vows. In a less formal tradition, workers ease the day’s stress at red lantern-lighted watering holes that collectively offer thousands of variations of the beverage.  Says Tokyo management consultant Masataka Takada: "Sitting at the bar, sipping sake sake side by side with a colleague lets the conversation flow."
   At least that is how it used to be. Nowadays fewer and fewer drinkers seem to agree with Takada. A growing preference for just 15% of Japan’s alcohol market, while beer makes up 70%; as recently as 1970 sake had a 30% share. That trend plus high land and labor costs are pushing smaller sake brewers out of business.  Among the 2, 000 companies still brewing, about half are losing money.
   For the Koyama Brewery, the sake crisis threatens a family business that began in 1885. The sole remaining sake producer in the city of Tokyo, it is tucked into four ancient vine-covered warehouses near a local highway and sits over an abundant underground water supply. A large ball made of cedar needles, once a sign to the public that the year’s brew was ready, now hangs year round near the company entrance next to a sake vending machine. Fourth-generation President Kozo Koyama is struggling to combine mechanization and tradition in a bid to survive.
   From the winter months of October through April, five kurabito, or brewers, and their toji, or leader, hole themselves up in the Koyama warehouses. Farmers from the Niigata prefecture, north of Tokyo, they work in the breweries while snow covers their rice paddies.  From large paper sacks, the kurabito pour out special large-grained varieties of rice that have been polished down to 70% or less of their original size to get rid of fat and increase solubility. They wash and steam the rice, mix it with yeast, malted rice and water pumped up from 13 m. underground. The pasty white mixture is left to gurgle and ferment in 8,000-L green vats for 25 days, after which the brew is pressed, filtered and pasteurized.  The toil, Isaburo Koyama (no relation to the founding family), free-tunes the process, deciding when to stir the brew and how much to adjust its fermentation temperature.
   During and after World War Ⅱ, sake makers mixed their brew with large amounts of alcohol to increase volume.  That proved popular, but it dulled the subtle aroma of various regional flavors of sake and killed conoisseurship. Desensitized by the alcohol- reeking concoctions, many Japanese knew little beyond the genetic term sake and its traditional container, the 1.8 L brown glass bottle called an issho-bin.
   When producers realized they were brewing up a calamity, many decided to revive sake’s distinct tastes, further polishing the constituent rice to bring out a fruity aroma and adding alcohol only to adjust the flavor. The process became costlier, but sake could now be marketed as a higher-grade drink.  The industry then came up with promotional campaigns to make sake more fashionable, such as serving it chilled like white wine or offering limited editions.  Sleeker, smaller bottles or convenient paper cartons are replacing the issho-bin. Qualifications have even been established for sake sommeliers to guide gourmet drinkers through the 5,000 available brands. In the past few years, these image efforts have started to pay off. The designer brews currently make up close to 20% of the sake market.
   To improve their return, some firms have turned to computers.  Gekkeikan, Japan’s largest brewer, with about 6% of the market, make nine-tenths of its sake with machinery using "fuzzy logic" chips rather than the experienced judgment of a toji."Our technology will even improve on tradition," says Yukio Matsumoto, deputy director of the Tokyo branch. Gekkeikan and other large producers also brew sake in the U.S.  for the local market; they can capitalize on rice that is about one-fifth as expensive as that at home. But so far, none have announced plans to export from their California breweries back to Japan, partly for fear of antagonizing the powerful rice lobby.
   Though he has sought to be more efficient and now manufactures a variety of upscale brews, Kozo Koyama doesn’t think his brewery will be among the lucky survivors. He complains that real estate taxes take away 8% of his revenues and fears that in a tight labor market it will be difficult to find an eventual replacement for his long time toji, now 69."I can’t continue in the city even if I want to," say Koyama. In a conflict that he views as prophetic, his neighbors last year complained about the leaves falling from the towering trees that grace the small plot of ground at the brewery dedicated to sake gods; Koyama was forced to clip the trees. Such a lack of respect does not augur well for an embattled tradition, however heavenly.
In order to survive in the present market, sake brewers ______.
选项 A、try adding more alcohol into sake to attract more consumers
B、are struggling to combine mechanization with tradition, and some even have turned to computers
C、market the traditional sake as a higher-grade drink and make it more fashionable by offering sake in the convenient issho-bin
D、produce sake in the U. S. , for rice there is comparatively cheaper, and they export their breweries back to Japan
答案B
解析
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