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　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 (Diced raw tuna), 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.