Juro’s Soul Food Journey All Over Japan

My home, Taito Ward, is often dismissed as a run-down neighborhood full of seniors and the homeless, with people rarely looking beyond Ueno’s hills or Asakusa. But make no mistake—this area is packed with hidden cultural treasures!

If a “Japanese Culinary Heritage” status existed, the food I am introducing today should be certified without hesitation. I genuinely believe Japanese people should take a moment to realize just how fortunate we are to enjoy this food . It may sound grand, but after eating the rice curry here, you simply can’t help feeling that way.

Their specialty is a bright yellow curry that has been gaining fame recently. Personally, I call this shop’s curry, along with Satomi Shokudo at Urawa Racetrack (No. 77) and the Bandai Bus Center Curry in Niigata (No. 109), the “Three Great Yellow Curries of Eastern Japan.” (Forgive me if there are others out there that I’m just not aware of!)

If I were to rate these three, I would describe Bandai as the “Masterpiece” (Exquisite), Satomi as the “Everyday Classic” (Universal), and Higashimaya as the “Sublime Gem” (Wondrous).

Now, today marks my third visit to savor this “Sublime Gem.” “Toshima-ya” is located almost exactly halfway between Iriya and Minowa Stations on the Tokyo Metro Hibiya Line, facing Route 4 (Nikko Kaido). From either station, it’s a 7-to-8-minute walk—honestly, a rather inconvenient spot. For outsiders, it’s the kind of area you’d never set foot in except for Iriya’s Morning Glory Fair or the Tori-no-Ichi fair at Otori Shrine. So if someone yelled, “Who the hell walks all that way just for curry, you idiot?!” I wouldn’t even have a comeback.

Heheh, but yours truly lives just a few minutes’ walk away. I can indulge in this “culinary heritage” whenever the mood strikes—eat your heart out!

I arrived right when they opened at 11:15 AM. No other customers yet, so I had the whole place to myself. The shop is narrow and deep, built like a “eel’s nest” (a classic long-and-narrow town house style). My mind was already made up; without hesitation, I ordered the “Rice Curry” from the master (who might be the landlady’s son).

Mind you, calling it “Curry Rice” won’t do here. The menu explicitly lists it as “Rice Curry.”

By the way, according to the 1986 TV drama Rice Curry written by So Kuramoto, the definition of “Rice Curry” goes as follows:

1. A thick, viscous curry sauce ladled over the rice.
2. Served with Fukujinzuke (pickled vegetables) or Rakkyo (pickled shallots) as a palate cleanser.
3. Contains large chunks of potatoes and carrots, topped with exactly three green peas.
4. Left alone, a thin skin forms over the curry sauce.

However, this represents the post-war definition of “Rice Curry.” The very “Rice Curry” here at Higashimaya that is about to appear before me does not fit into this standard formula—it reaches back to the primordial origin of from an even earlier era. In pre-war Rice Curry, there were no potatoes or carrots to begin with.

As I waited for my dish, the sound of curry powder being stirred echoed from the kitchen, just like always. The kitchen, it seems, is run by the landlady herself.

“Higashimaya” is a traditional soba restaurant founded in 1892 (Meiji 25). Being close to Asakusa and Motoyoshihara (the historic red-light district), century-old establishments are dime a dozen around here. Still, it fills me with deep emotion to wonder how many famous figures might have walked through these doors—perhaps Ichiyo Higuchi or Shiki Masaoka even slurped soba right here.

After about five minutes, my Rice Curry arrived on a tray. Placed alongside was a glass of water with a spoon resting inside it, and right next to it, a bottle of Worcestershire sauce. Now this is a style I can get behind.

I took the first bite plain. It’s not spicy, nor is it packed with herbs. Yet, while it’s undeniably curry, you also catch a distinct saltiness. It has viscosity and a touch of graininess, yet it possesses a real depth. The ingredients are simple—just pork belly and onions—but far from tasting homemade or amateurish, which is wonderful. It’s a curry like nowhere else. And strangely, it evokes a sense of nostalgia, making this first-of-its-kind food experience feel wonderfully peculiar.

I later learned that the 6th-generation landlady is currently showcasing her culinary skills in the kitchen, and this curry recipe is a closely guarded secret.

To be honest, on my very first visit, I wanted soba, so I ordered the Curry Bowl set. Back then, I thought, “What on earth is this curry?” I slammed the critics who were praising it as the “ultimate yellow curry,” scoffing at them as mere armchair experts. However, whenever everyone else claims a place is delicious and I fail to get it, my rule is to give it a second chance. So, I stepped through Higashimaya’s noren curtains once more.

This time, I decided to try the “Rice Curry” on its own. And strangely enough… it worked! It was actually quite delicious. I had to reflect and realize that it was I who had been mistaken all along. In my heart, I offered a sincere apology to that critic.

Now, please don’t misunderstand me—there are countless curries out there today that taste “better” than this. But the point is that this is a taste you can only experience here. While we enjoy all kinds of curries nowadays, it is no exaggeration to say that this is the original Japanese-style curry that the Japanese people first tasted (even if the recipe has evolved over time). In this modern Reiwa era, we can still enjoy an unchanged taste from over a century ago. For the sake of your culinary education, you really ought to try Higashimaya’s Rice Curry at least once.

In closing: if Higashimaya’s Rice Curry is the Original Japanese-Style Curry (though calling it “Japanese-style” sounds a bit odd since Rice Curry is inherently Japanese food…), then I suppose Shinjuku Nakamuraya’s Curry would be the Original Indian-Style Curry.

Safe to say, I’m hooked.

　I’ve always felt a thrill when seeing men with rugged, muscular physiques (not that I swing that way, mind you…). I used to dream of having a body like that, even going so far as to buy gear like chest expanders—talk about old-school—and plotting a “muscle transformation plan.” Yet, when it came to actual practice, I’d always give up after just a few days; I was a pathetic sort of guy whose dream of looking like Jason Statham remained just that—a pipe dream. However, after turning fifty, my health took a turn for the worse: I developed spinal stenosis, and to top it off, diabetes. Even a guy as reckless with his health as I was began to feel a growing sense of unease, so I finally started working out. This time, the sense of urgency was different from my younger days; I managed to turn it into a habit and have kept it up for about seven years now (good for me!). I’ve realized that at this age, true resolve is proven by consistency—if only I’d understood that when I was young, I might have turned into a much more impressive adult (though it’s too late for that now). I’ve also come to realize that muscles can grow regardless of age, and I find myself gazing into the mirror day and night, grinning with satisfaction as I watch my body bulk up (I really am a fool, aren’t I?).

　One place I—a middle-aged guy—had long wanted to visit is the steakhouse “Ribera,” which I am introducing today. It is a famous establishment known to everyone in the world of muscular athletes. While it has frequently appeared in the media—making it perhaps unnecessary to write about it now—I am featuring it simply because it was a place I personally really wanted to visit. In fact, despite being located in Meguro, the restaurant is surprisingly inconvenient to reach (Meguro Ward is actually quite inaccessible, contrary to its reputation as a popular Tokyo area), so visiting requires a fair amount of determination; however, I finally had the chance to go. Today, I visited after covering Yutenji (a Jodo sect temple) and taking a bath at a public bathhouse called Gekkosen. Since the restaurant opens at 5:00 PM and is extremely popular, I timed my bath so I would arrive by 4:30 PM.

After strolling through the amazing Rinshi-no-Mori Park, I arrived at the restaurant to find a line of about six people already forming. Delighted at the prospect of getting in during the first seating, I joined the queue. Right before my eyes was the very storefront I had often seen on YouTube… Wow—there were The Rock, Hulk Hogan, Bruiser Brody, The Undertaker, and even Akebono. In smaller photos, I could also spot Terry Funk and Steve Williams. As I gazed at them for a moment, a staff member came out to take our order. I ordered a medium bottled beer, a glass of red wine, the signature one-pound ribeye steak (450g), and the potage soup, which is also reputed to be delicious. My companion ordered the filet steak (200g) and a salad; we both requested a half-portion of rice to go with our meals.

A line of people is rapidly forming behind me. Whoa—even though it’s only forty-five minutes past the hour, the shop’s thoughtful gesture allows us to enter early (this isn’t a pro-wrestling match, after all), and I step inside. The scene unfolding before me is one I’ve often seen on YouTube. The walls and ceiling are plastered with photos of rough-looking men with massive physiques (though, in reality, they’re good guys). There are so many of them that it’s impossible to tell who is who. Yet, just gazing at them—knowing that legends like Rikidozan, Giant Baba, Antonio Inoki, The Destroyer, Butcher, and Tiger Jeet Singh must be up there somewhere—is a delight in itself. For some reason, Rikiya Yasuoka happens to be sitting right next to me.

　Inside the shop, there are three tables for six, one table for four, and six counter seats. At the far end of the counter, the owner stands before the grill, silently cooking steaks with a faint smile on his face. Meanwhile, three staff members—including one woman—efficiently attend to the customers. I am shown to a six-person table in the center and take my seat; I end up sharing the table with a group of three—a parent and two children. A small bowl containing the shop’s signature steak sauce is promptly brought out. In fact, my primary reason for visiting was to find out exactly what this famous sauce—which people on YouTube rave about endlessly—tastes like. It appears to be a sauce made with grated daikon radish, onion, and garlic…

As I was quenching my thirst with beer, a bowl of potage soup was placed before me. This soup is apparently one of the restaurant’s specialties, so I gave it a taste—only to find it utterly ordinary. The salad, too, was nothing special (though perhaps that was to be expected). After a short wait—about five minutes—the main event arrived: a one-pound steak. It was massive, as expected. My companion’s filet arrived as well; at 200 grams, it was a rather modest size. I sliced ​​into the meat, which was still sizzling on the iron plate, and took the first bite plain. It had a satisfying, meaty chew and no unpleasant gamey odor—an excellent steak. Next, I sprinkled on some salt and pepper for a bite. Finally, I topped the steak with the sauce I’d been eagerly awaiting and devoured it like a wild animal. I washed it down with wine, then dug in again.

I expected the sauce to be on the sweet side, but it turned out to be a sophisticated flavor that doesn’t get old. With a taste like this, I feel like I could even handle the “Yokozuna Steak” (a 640-gram ribeye). I also tried a bite of my companion’s filet; while the filet certainly had a more refined quality, I still feel that the ribeye here—with its rugged, “muscular” character—is the better choice for a place like “Ribera.” Incidentally, I had been eating under the impression that it was American beef, but it turns out to be Australian beef. It is impressive to find such quality in Australian beef. The family at the next table is also silently tearing into their meat. This isn’t the kind of place for chatting merrily with friends; it’s a spot—much like a beef bowl shop—where you focus entirely on the food, silently shoveling it in. A guy like me tends to worry about the people waiting outside, so I inevitably end up rushing through the meal (I’m a pretty decent guy, aren’t I?). Still, when I got down to the last third, I started feeling full and the going got tough, but I managed to finish it all.

　At first, I had fanciful thoughts that I might even be able to handle the “Challenge Menu”—finishing three one-pound steaks and three large servings of rice within 30 minutes to win 10,000 yen (or paying around 12,000 yen if I failed)—but I quickly realized that was out of the question. Overall, it’s a pretty interesting place; if it were nearby, I’d likely visit often, but given the poor accessibility, I doubt I’ll be back. Prices seem to have gone up significantly (a one-pound steak used to be 3,800 yen), and at the current rates, I don’t think I’d make the trip again. (Incidentally, there is another “Ribera” branch just a three-minute walk from Gotanda or Takanawadai Station; the owner there is the father of the Meguro shop’s owner, and they serve the exact same menu.) As for the quality of the meat, there are similar places closer to my own neck of the woods (around Ueno). Still, I’m glad I had the chance to visit at least once.

Leaving the shop, I found the line still snaking endlessly; I walked toward Meguro Station—feeling dizzy from having eaten my fill—and wondered just how many more people would devour that meat before closing time at 11:00 PM. I briefly considered climbing the steep Gyōnin-zaka slope to help lower my blood sugar, but my resolve faltered, and I opted for the gentler Gonnosuke-zaka instead. I really am a pathetic sort of guy. Still, with the physique of Joe Manganiello as my ultimate goal, I trudged up the hill, telling myself I’d give it my all with the weight training starting tomorrow.

　I wonder when exactly “sours” (or *chūhai*) became so deeply ingrained in Japanese drinking culture—evolving into a beverage that now rivals, or even surpasses, beer, sake, and whisky in popularity. Looking back, I don’t recall seeing sours in bars during my college days forty years ago; however, by the time the “bubble economy” arrived a decade later, they were already a fixture. This suggests the trend likely took off sometime between the late 1980s and early 1990s. Viewed in this light, the sour is still a relative newcomer. Yet, it sparked a boom for *shōchū*—a spirit once dismissed as a “poor man’s drink” and rarely consumed in places like Tokyo—and paved the way for the subsequent popularity of niche items like Hoppy and whisky highballs. It seems fair to say, then, that the period from that era to the present has been a time of radical transformation for Japanese drinking culture. So, who was actually drinking sours before they became a nationwide craze?
　It is likely that the true origin lies in the run-down *izakaya* (serving *yakitori* and *yakiton*) of Tokyo’s working-class districts, where impoverished laborers—finding beer and sake too expensive—would wash down cheap snacks with *chūhai* instead. It is fascinating how times change: a drink born of resignation—a somewhat melancholy choice made because one had to forgo the beer or sake one actually craved—has transformed into something stylish (a shift that has undoubtedly succeeded in drawing more women into *izakaya*).
　Among the various types of *chuhai* (shochu highballs), there is one—known as the “Shitamachi Highball”—that perfectly captures the atmosphere of the old-school, working-class neighborhoods (*shitamachi*) of that era; I wonder if you are familiar with it. While plenty of lively, independent izakaya chains serve it these days, it used to be found only in specific pockets of those working-class districts (and a few spots along the Chuo Line). I believe the first time I tried one was at an izakaya in Asagaya, on the Chuo Line. Visually, it has the hue of a plum sour, so one might expect a plum flavor, yet it lacks any distinct taste whatsoever. It is essentially flavorless—impossible to describe—and yet, calling it a standard *chuhai* doesn’t quite feel right either. When I asked a waitress what was in it, she simply brushed me off, saying it was a “secret.”

Back then, without a smartphone to look it up, I left the place without knowing the answer; once I sobered up, the matter ceased to matter. Years later, however, I happened to step through the *noren* curtain of a downtown *izakaya* and glanced at the counter, only to see most of the patrons drinking a yellow liquid—something resembling a “sour.” The atmosphere was such that one might think ordering any other drink was strictly forbidden. Before long, I realized it was that very “downtown highball.” Yet here, naturally, they didn’t call it a “downtown highball”—it was simply a “highball.” Lacking the boldness to challenge that atmosphere, I let that “downtown highball” slide down my throat for the first time in decades… and the memories came flooding back—that taste that was no taste at all. I had about three glasses, but surrounded by such a seasoned crowd of hardcore drinkers, I was too intimidated to ask, “What exactly is this extract?” and—regrettably—I left the shop feeling as though I had a bone stuck in my throat.

I had returned to my daily routine and forgotten all about it, but recently, after finishing a YouTube video featuring Kenichi Nagira, the platform suggested a related program: an episode of *Tamori Club* titled “Let’s Drink ‘Shitamachi Highball’.” Intrigued, I started the video and discovered it was a detailed feature on “Shitamachi Highball.” The program—featuring the manufacturing company’s president alongside Tamori, Kenichi Nagira, Suidobashi Hakase, and Tamabukuro Sujitaro—explored the history and proper way to drink it. I felt a strange sense of coincidence because it was filmed at “Enta,” an *izakaya* near my home (now closed; located in Minowa), and the manufacturer of the flavoring extract (Amo Beverage Manufacturing) was also based in Ryusen, Taito Ward—literally a stone’s throw from where I live. It was the moment that finally clarified a mystery that had puzzled me for decades.

What surprised me most was that the program had aired back in the 90s—several years *before* my first experience in Asagaya. I was dumbfounded by my own cluelessness: realizing how long it had taken me to find the answer, only to discover that the solution had been broadcast nationwide on TV—and was right there in front of me—long before I had even wondered about it. Yet, being quick to bounce back, I soon recovered and came to feel a sense of destiny regarding this drink.

　I immediately headed to the company to buy the drink, only to discover that they didn’t sell to the public. While wandering the neighborhood wondering what to do, I found it right under my nose—at “Mizukami Shoten” in Iriya, a shop I frequent. They stocked the full lineup (Highball Red, Yellow, and Blue [Plum]) as well as other hidden gems from Tenba Beverage, such as New Gunner, Grape Syrup, Lemon, Mint, and Red Ball. As a Tenba novice, I opted for the classic Red (980 yen for a 1.8-liter bottle) to take home. (Incidentally, Tenba products are cheaper at Mizukami Shoten than online.)

I immediately prepared a drink by mixing the *Ko-rui* shochu (as specified on the label) with one-third water, then combining the extract with soda water in a 2:3 ratio and adding ice. I took a sip. It had a nuance reminiscent of unscented black tea—so it wasn’t just a plain *chu-hi* (though, naturally, that would defeat the purpose of adding the extract). As for the specific flavor profile, it defies description; you simply have to try it yourself. The real appeal, however, lies in its smooth, unchallenging taste—it’s the kind of drink you could easily keep coming back to without getting bored. Lacking a lemon slice, I added a splash of fresh-squeezed lemon juice from Ocho instead. Oh, it was actually quite good. Curious about the nature of the extract, I checked the ingredients list on the label, but it merely listed acidulants, flavorings, colorings, and a preservative (sodium benzoate).

Naturally, a syrup this cheap doesn’t contain high-quality ingredients, but that’s fine by me—as long as it gives me a pleasant buzz. Don’t be a killjoy and go on about it being bad for your health; alcohol is bad for you anyway, no matter what. It looks like this “Shitamachi Highball” is going to become a regular part of my evening drinks. After all, it’s cheap, so I feel like it’s probably low in calories and safe for diabetes… (or is it?).
　Still, the metaphor of a “creepy extract”—the sort one might find sold at a post-war black market—fits it perfectly. More to the point, I wonder if they use this “Ao-ume” (green plum) syrup for my favorite drink: *shochu* with a splash of plum syrup (specifically, a single-serving jar of unmixed *shochu* with a few drops added—though few bars serve it this way, and there is usually a three-glass limit). I doubt that’s actually the case, but the thought has certainly piqued my curiosity.