Author: kelvint

　When you cross 60 and reach an age where you feel like you’ve got one foot in the grave, you start to realize that you naturally regress to your roots in almost everything you do. Food is especially like that—whenever I come across a flavor I used to eat in my younger days, my brain and body react instantly.

Take Mapo Tofu, for example. Today, authentic Sichuan-style Mapo Tofu—packed with fiery chili and numbing Sichuan pepper—has become the mainstream in Japan. But back when this middle-aged guy was just a little kid, no such dish existed. Back then, “Mapo Tofu” simply meant a mild, kid-friendly version made by adding silky silken tofu to Marumiya’s pre-packaged sauce mix.

As I grew into adulthood, I eventually learned that this was far from authentic, home-style Sichuan Mapo Tofu—it was merely a localized, “Japanese-style” (Nisshiki) adaptation. Once I knew that, I became quite terrible. If I happened to see this Japanese-style Mapo Tofu at a neighborhood Chinese diner (machi-chūka), I’d sneer with disdain, tossing around pompous foodie remarks like: “This isn’t real Mapo Tofu! How can anyone eat something so bland?”

Lately, though—with all due respect to the legendary chefs Chen Kenmin and Chen Kenichi, whom I deeply admire—I’ve stopped enjoying those high-end Mapo Tofu dishes made with firm cotton tofu and heavy Sichuan pepper. Instead, when I randomly popped into a local Chinese diner and ate that mild, kid-friendly Mapo Tofu again, I found myself thinking: Hey, this is actually great.

What on earth has happened to me? They say that getting old means turning back into a child, and facing the sad reality that my taste buds have regressed back to childhood, I loaded a spoonful of that kid-friendly Mapo Tofu over hot rice and shoved it into my mouth. (The effortless, comforting taste and the smooth texture of the silken tofu were completely unpretentious—two thumbs up!)

Now, today, after giving my greetings to the Kannon statue at Sensoji Temple, I thought I’d put on airs like the poet Mokichi Saito(* see footnote) and treat myself to some eel at “Koyanagi”—the best budget-friendly eel restaurant in Asakusa. With that in mind, I headed over to neighboring Asakusa for the first time in a while.

As usual, Asakusa was absolutely brimming with foreign tourists today. Wandering through the streets of Asakusa, where only the storefronts seem to get progressively sleeker, I couldn’t help but wonder: If all these tourists suddenly disappeared, wouldn’t Asakusa just revert to the faded, quiet town it was 20 years ago?

After giving a quick, formal greeting to the Kannon statue, I made my way toward Koyanagi. I had a bad feeling about it, though… and as I got closer to the shop: BAM! Closed for the day. I remembered all too late that a lot of shops in Asakusa are closed on Thursdays.

Well then, I thought, it’s time for good old “Mizuguchi”—my trusty backup. While going from an eel feast to Mizuguchi was a step down—no, a massive drop—in terms of luxury, taking it slow with some daytime drinking is its own kind of luxury, isn’t it? Forcing this conveniently self-serving logic onto myself, I hurried over.

Fortunately, Mizuguchi was open, and I stepped inside. Since it was off-peak hours, I easily got a seat at the single-diner table in the center of the room. The restaurant has two floors. On the first floor, there are 10 single seats arranged in the middle, surrounded in a U-shape by tables for six, four, and two. I’ve only been seated on the second floor once, so I don’t quite recall its layout, but it has a pretty large capacity, making it a fairly spacious establishment overall.

“Mizuguchi Shokudo” is arguably the most popular teishoku (set-meal) diner in Asakusa. It also doubles as an izakaya, bustling with happy boozers right from midday. For this middle-aged guy, I love its sheer accessibility and high level of freedom—a factor far more important to me than whether the food is good or bad—which is why I’ve frequented this place time and time again.

Another great thing about Mizuguchi is that it’s a spot for grown-ups. Honestly, I think you can only truly appreciate the charm of a place like this once you cross 30 and begin to realize that life has a bit of depth to it. The best part? There are no noisy kids or young folks around. On top of that, there are relatively few tourists (though their numbers have been creeping up lately).

To start off, I ordered a bottle of beer—a small bottle of Sapporo Black Label. Isn’t it wonderful that they thoughtfully offer small bottles? (When drinking alone, powering through a large bottle can sometimes feel like a chore). As I quenched my thirst with the beer, I took in the art gallery of menu plaques covering the walls.

In truth, my order was already set in stone (though my resolve does wobble on occasion). Bettara-zuke (sweet pickled radish) and Maguro-butsu (diced raw tuna). Bettara-zuke ranks alongside Senmai-zuke (thin-sliced turnip pickles) as one of my two absolute favorite pickles. As for the Maguro-butsu, it stands shoulder-to-shoulder with regular tuna sashimi as a perennial house recommendation. The menu here is so overwhelming that if you tried to choose on the spot, the sun would set before you made up your mind (making it quite a challenge for first-timers).

By the way, the signature dish here is their “Special Iri-buta”—pork and onions stir-fried in a curry-flavored sauce. You’ll see a vast majority of the customers ordering it.

Within just a few minutes of ordering, both dishes arrived at my table. The Bettara-zuke portions were on the smaller side, but this was the real deal (a lot of places out there serve cheap imitations). As for the Maguro-butsu, while it had a few sinews, it was wonderfully fresh.

Around me, various customers were enjoying their meals in their own distinct ways. An indescribably slow, relaxed time was flowing through the room. (Perhaps this is what true, unforced peace and quiet feels like?) The restaurant wasn’t trying to do anything fancy—it was simply running through its daily, comforting routine. As the landlady once said in a TV interview: “We don’t really have anything incredible here. Everything is just… ordinary.”

Yes, and that is precisely how it should be. Lately, this middle-aged guy has started seeking that very “ordinariness” in a restaurant. I don’t need bizarre, pompous fusion dishes, nor do I need overly manipulated, pretentious flavorings. Even MSG seasoning is perfectly fine by me! (Though it can’t just taste like “home cooking”—it still has to be the work of a professional). Dear chefs, I whispered in my heart, instead of chasing after some cryptic Michelin stars, why not just make food with a bit more freedom?

With that thought, I ordered my final grand finale: The Homemade Meat Sauce Spaghetti.

I’ve been coming to this restaurant for about 20 years, and it is a magnificent masterpiece that I have never seen anyone else order. It’s a uniquely Japanese dish where a thick, rich meat sauce—reminiscent of melted powdered sauce mix—clings to a mountain of minced meat, slathered over noodles as thick as udon. People who gush over “Italian pasta” with its watery tomato sauce probably wouldn’t understand it. In fact, I’ve had a few friends try it, and every single one of them just tilted their head in confusion.

And that’s perfectly fine. They don’t need to get it—because it belongs solely to me.

Still, since virtually nobody orders it, I always get terrified that it might be removed from the menu. That’s why every time I walk into the shop, I anxiously scan the menu plaques on the wall.

I doused it with a generous amount of parmesan cheese and Tabasco, mixed it all up, and slurped the noodles loudly. (This isn’t Italian food, so slurping is 100% allowed!) Fragments of childhood memories came flooding back—moments of making meat sauce with my family back in elementary school. Halfway through, I drizzled some sauce over it to shift the flavor profile, transforming it into yet another exquisite bite. On top of all that, it makes an outstanding bar snack to go with alcohol.

It’s a taste that Italians, or French guys at Michelin, could never possibly comprehend. But that’s just fine. As long as Japanese people understand it—no, as long as I understand it—that’s all that matters.

Having savored a flavor uniquely my own for the first time in a while, I stepped out of the restaurant feeling deeply happy and contented. Back in the day, I would have walked right over to the famous “Okina Soba” next door—known for its curry nanban soba—and devoured a bowl of Mujina Soba. But alas, I no longer have that kind of appetite. Passing by Okina Soba, I felt a fleeting pang of loneliness, knowing that the voracious appetite of my younger days would likely never return. The shop had just closed for its afternoon break, and its entrance curtain (noren) was tucked away.

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*Note on Mokichi:

Mokichi Saito (1882–1953) was a prominent Meiji-to-Showa period tanka poet and psychiatrist, as well as a recipient of the Order of Culture. Known for famous poetry collections such as Shakko and Aratama, he is also legendary for being perhaps the greatest consumer of unagi (eel) in Japanese history. Mokichi was a devoted believer in the Kannon deity and frequently worshipped at Sensoji Temple in Asakusa.
The poet Ryuichi Tamura once cheekily remarked that “Mokichi’s god of Poesie was nothing more than the Asakusa Kannon and grilled eel,” and that “all Mokichi had to do for his poetry was go to the Kannon.” His eldest son was the psychiatrist/essayist Shigeta Saito, his second son was the acclaimed novelist/essayist Morio Kita, and his granddaughter is the essayist Yuka Saito.

Fifty years ago, when I was 15, I hated Adachi Ward so much that I just had to get out. (Back then, it was the kind of town where you’d get mugged almost every day just walking down the street.) But even back then, I felt that within Adachi Ward, Senju—the area surrounded by the rivers—had a higher level of refinement compared to the other towns across the Arakawa River, which felt more like part of the Saitama cultural sphere. (This is probably due to the difference in their historical backgrounds.) Some people refer to all of Adachi Ward as Tokyo’s Shitamachi (traditional downtown), but while Senju proudly wears the face of a true Shitamachi, the rest of Adachi is just suburbs and can hardly be called Shitamachi at all.

Having loathed Adachi Ward so much and sworn never to return, I now find myself visiting frequently because my work routine brings me through Kita-Senju. And I am simply astonished by how much it has changed. It routinely ranks high on lists of “Most Desirable Places to Live” (unbelievable!), and it now hosts two universities: Tokyo University of Science and Tokyo University of the Arts. (With all due respect, Geidai [Tokyo University of the Arts] and Adachi Ward felt so completely incompatible in my mind that I was truly in disbelief.) When I heard that the daily passenger count at Kita-Senju Station had surpassed Ueno Station, I was utterly blown away. Truth be told, back in the day, suburban locals from Adachi (and perhaps even today) would head straight to Ginza or Ueno whenever they had something special to celebrate, simply passing right through Kita-Senju. So, while I’ve been sounding like an expert sharing my deep wisdom on Adachi, the reality is that I’ve only recently gotten to know the town of Senju—I’m actually just a beginner here.

　Well, I had heard rumors for a long time that the area was packed with retro, atmosphere-heavy drinking spots—like Ohashi for stew, Nagami for fried Senju-age, and Tenshichi for skewers—making it an irresistible haven for boozers. But when I revisited the town for a high school reunion after 40 years, looking around the streets, I couldn’t help but think: Isn’t this place a paradise for middle-aged guys like me?

Anyway, my introduction has grown long again, but today I’d like to introduce “Kashiwaya,” a traditional, no-frills noodle shop (taishū soba-ya) that has been in business in Senju for an impressive 120 years (founded in 1904, the 37th year of the Meiji era). It’s been around so long that it makes you wonder if even the famous author Mori Ōgai might have visited when he lived in Senju.

Though to be completely frank, it’s just an utterly ordinary neighborhood noodle shop. The soba is made of roughly 60% buckwheat flour and 40% wheat flour—a ratio that my grandfather from Yamagata would have indignantly declared, “This is just udon!” (Whenever he visited Tokyo during his lifetime, he would fly into a rage over Tokyo’s cheap soba. As a child watching him, I internally thought, Well, if you hate it that much, just don’t eat it! But looking back, it felt like he actually enjoyed getting angry, so he had his own fun with it).

If you ask me, though, this utter lack of pretension is precisely what makes it so great. Lately, these unassuming, classic noodle shops are becoming a rare breed. Now, what counts as a “pretentious” soba shop? The kind where a guy who quit his corporate job to pursue a mid-life passion rolls out noodles with a stubborn frown (always wearing a traditional craftsman’s samue robe), operating out of a self-consciously atmospheric storefront, serving trendy dishes alongside pre-noodle drinks—and the customers act all sophisticated, pretending to be connoisseurs as they eat. You see a lot of those around Ginza or Kagurazaka (which are quite different from genuinely historic, high-end establishments).

As for Kashiwaya: around 3:00 PM, looking for a late lunch, I set out in search of a humble soba shop, hoping to get a bowl of Ankake Udon (a thick-starchy soup udon, one of my absolute favorites). Thinking even Senju didn’t have many traditional soba shops left, I was walking down Shukuba-machi Street when I stumbled upon it by chance.

Stepping inside, it was the absolute embodiment of a classic taishū soba-ya. Wooden menu plaques were lined up neatly along the wall. There were three four-person tables on each side of the aisle, with the kitchen at the back and what looked like a second floor upstairs. Since it was way past regular meal hours, the only other customers were a couple and a single middle-aged man. Told to take any open seat, I settled into the middle table on the right side.

Thinking my order was already set, I idly flipped through the pages of the menu, only to find a mind-boggling variety of options. The selection of soba and udon was overwhelmingly complete—you rarely see a place with a lineup this thorough these days. The set meals were extensive, and they even offered a wide variety of creative original soba, including uniquely named dishes like “Jigoku” (Hell), “Sanzoku” (Bandit), and “Kaizoku” (Pirate). The side dishes to accompany drinks (soba-mae) were equally impressive, and since the shop stays open straight through the afternoon without a break, I quickly realized: This is an absolute gem for daytime drinking.

Deciding I might as well get a beer, I flipped to the beverage menu. But as I glanced at the wall beside me, the words “Horoyoi Set” (Tipsy Combo) caught my eye (see photo).

My initial resolve crumbled. An inner devil whispered conveniently to me: Hey, you’re a guy with nothing else to do today—wouldn’t this be much better?

When the waitress came to take my order, the words slipped right out of my mouth without any conscious effort: “An-… the Horoyoi Set, please.”
“What kind of alcohol would you like?” she asked.
“A large bottle, please.”
“Asahi or Kirin?”
“Asahi,” replied the middle-aged man sitting there.

Moments later, a genuine 633ml large bottle of Asahi appeared before me. (Usually, many places in Tokyo claim to serve “large bottles” when they’re actually medium ones).

Well, since it’s come to this, I might as well give it my all and drink up! I thought—though there was really no need to try so hard. I gulped down the beer. Ahhh, ice-cold and absolute bliss! As I poured a second glass down my throat, the first appetizer arrived: Itawasa (sliced fish cake with horseradish).

And this wasn’t just some token, half-hearted side dish. Looking at its tender texture, I wondered: Is this from Yamaguchi? Or perhaps Odawara, or Kibun? Six thick slices of kamaboko rested on the plate, accompanied by a surprisingly generous serving of seasoned mountain vegetables (sansai). The drinks were going down way too easily.

Then came the next appetizer: tempura. To my amazement, it came with a full spread of six items—shishito pepper, pumpkin, eggplant, shrimp, squid, and conger eel (anago).

With my beer completely finished, I decided to go for another round and ordered a glass of Unkai buckwheat shochu on the rocks (600 yen). Looking over, I noticed the couple nearby was also happily drinking their way through the “Horoyoi Set.”

The solo male customer was sipping hot soba while drinking a warm green tea shochu cocktail (Ocha-wari). There was something deeply peaceful and laid-back about the whole scene. It’s an unpretentious, incredibly easygoing place where you can just be yourself. Shops like this—where time flows at a gentle, slow, and relaxed pace—are becoming fewer and fewer. I’m sure during peak lunch hours, both the kitchen and the staff are running around like crazy, but sitting here, it feels as if nothing has changed since the Showa era.

Feeling pleasantly tipsy (horoyoi), I saved a few pieces of tempura to pair with my noodles and ordered a serving of cold Mori Soba. Before long, the noodles arrived. As I mentioned earlier, the soba itself is completely ordinary. For a place with a 120-year history, the dipping sauce lacks a sharp edge—it’s a bit weak and watery. But that’s precisely why it’s so good. I didn’t come here for some mind-blowing gourmet soba.

Traditional neighborhood shops like this might be an endangered species these days, but I truly hope they keep going forever. “I’m definitely going to be a frequent regular here from now on,” this middle-aged guy pledged to himself as I poured hot Soba-yu (soba water) into my remaining sauce and took a sip.

To get all of this for a grand total of just 2,700 yen—I can’t help but be deeply, deeply grateful. (I later heard that this “Horoyoi Set” is indeed an extraordinarily popular item on their menu.)

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.