Seated on a Tokyo Metro train, Maki Horikita gazes out the window, her thoughts drifting. "Lately, I’ve been absorbed in reading," she reflects. Stepping off the train into the autumn air, she meanders past antiquarian bookshops, their outdoor shelves filled with titles.
One shop, in particular, draws her inside. She ascends to the second floor, where shelves overflow with secondhand books. Below, the shopkeeper observes her. "Excuse me, do you have any recommendations?" she asks. He smiles, offering not a title but a piece of advice: "Trust your sense of smell."
It is a suggestion that likely resonates with anyone who has noticed how every book seems to carry its own scent—an alchemy of paper, ink, adhesives, and binding materials, each aging in its own way. Where a book has lived—a damp basement, a sunlit shelf, or a well-ventilated library—imprints itself upon the fragrance. Over time, human touch leaves its mark: skin oils, perfumes, or perhaps traces of food or drink.
Books that have passed through many hands seem to develop a richer, more intricate olfactory signature than those left untouched. If a book’s quality can be inferred from the frequency of its readings over the years, then perhaps scent, too, has a place in the selection process of an antiquarian bookshop.
Sure enough, Maki’s senses draw her to a particular volume. With her purchase in hand, she makes her way to a nearby restaurant. A steaming plate of curry rice arrives as she settles into a corner, enveloped by the nostalgic furnishings of the Shōwa Era—red leather banquettes, dark wood paneling, and soft, ambient lighting filtered through well-worn lampshades.
As Maki makes her way home, she wanders through a pocket park, noting the air perfumed with kinmokusei—fragrant orange osmanthus—before boarding the Tokyo Metro once more. She settles into her seat, absorbed in her book, which has turned out to be an undeniable page-turner. And so concludes a vignette from Color Your Days, a series of Tokyo Metro commercials inspired by the palette of the city’s subway lines.
In each ad, actress Horikita arrives at a different station, embarking on a new local experience. The edition I recall seeing around 2012 had her alighting at Jimbōchō station. I like to think of myself as largely immune to the sway of television ads—or perhaps I’m just seldom the intended audience—but the evocative shots of wandering through second-hand bookshops and savouring curry rice in a kissaten-style setting were an undeniable bullseye. The next day, I tapped my Pasmo at the nearest Tokyo Metro gate and set off for Jimbōchō.
What struck me upon first emerging from the Metro station was how Color Your Days, through its shot selection and editing, cast Jimbōchō in the light of a leafy town centre—when, in reality, the district revolves around the expansive intersection of two major arterial roads. Hakusan-dōri runs south from the Hirakawa-mon Gate of the Imperial Palace to the Sengoku Station Intersection in the north, where it meets the historic Nakasendō. Cutting across from east to west, Yasukuni-dōri stretches from Ryōgoku Bridge in the shitamachi to Nishi-Shinjuku, passing the neon-lit zakkyo buildings clustered around Shinjuku Station. Jimbōchō, part of Chiyoda Ward, sits roughly midway between the two.
On the map, the quarter appears as Kanda-Jimbōchō (神田神保町), spanning three chōme neighbourhoods. It forms part of the broader, somewhat sprawling Kanda area, which includes neighbourhoods like Kanda-Ogawamachi, Kanda-Sarugakuchō, and Kanda-Surugadai. Kanda’s character is in part shaped by academia, with institutions such as Meiji University, Hitotsubashi University, and Nihon University forming a scholarly ring around Jimbōchō.
The roots of this intellectual topography can be traced to the formative years of Tokyo University, whose predecessor institutions were clustered in and around Kanda. In 1870, Kaisei Gakkō (開成学校) was founded in Surugadai, drawing students, scholars, and educators. This institution later merged with Tokyo Igakkō (東京医学校, Tokyo Medical School) in 1877 to establish Tokyo University (東京大学). With it came a growing demand for academic books, second-hand texts, and imported Western literature, giving rise to a network of bookstores, publishing houses and printers.
This flourishing network came to be known as Kanda Koshotenmachi (神田古書店街), or the "Kanda Second-Hand Bookstore District." As bookshops gradually concentrated within Jimbōchō’s chōmes, they laid the groundwork for what is now celebrated as Jimbōchō Book Town. Even after Tokyo University moved to Hongō, north of the Kanda River, its intellectual and architectural legacy remained.
Though the area retains a shōtengai shopping street and a number of back lanes that echo its Edo-period past, the most renowned booksellers line the artery of Yasukuni-dōri. Over the years, as I returned to sift through bookstore shelves and revisit curry shops, I often wondered how the layers of architecture, commerce, and—just as Color Your Days portrayed—curry culture became entwined with this globally revered rare and antiquarian book district. The best way to grasp it, I suspect, is to take a walk.
Stepping out of the station into Jimbōchō’s intersection for the first time can be disorienting. Four main roads stretch outward, with additional side streets tempting exploration. Each direction holds its own allure, yet it’s not immediately clear which path leads most directly to the heart of the book district. The desire to not miss a thing is natural. With that in mind, I have a simple route prepared, one that ensures nothing crucial is overlooked.
My preferred starting point is Exit A7 of the Metro station, which leads directly to an alleyway flanked by three red vending machines adorned with a geisha motif. Just behind you, should you need a cream soda or a blend coffee to begin your walk, stands Sabōru—a kissaten dating back to 1955. With its log-cabin façade, a totem pole at the entrance, and a dense tangle of potted plants spilling onto the pavement, it’s an unmistakable landmark; a sign, if ever there was one, that you’re on the right track.
Moreover, exiting the alley toward the main road brings us almost directly to the intersection, situating us on the south side of Yasukuni-dōri. The highest concentration of used bookstores in Jimbōchō faces north along Yasukuni to prevent sunlight damage to the books, making this the ideal place to start. We orient ourselves eastward and begin strolling in the shade.
Before long, we’re already passing bookshops. Estimates of their total number vary depending on the source—anywhere from a casual 130 to as many as 400. If you’re following my route, I encourage you to stop at any shop that piques your interest, whether or not I’ve mentioned it. For the sake of some kind of brevity, I’ll be stopping at a select few—either personal favourites or those with particular historical or cultural significance. I’ve charted around 100 bookshops on the members' walking map on one layer, with a separate layer marking my personal selections.
Our first stop along Yasukuni-dōri is Isseido Booksellers (一誠堂書店), a family-owned institution with a 122-year history. Inside, two floors brim with an eclectic selection of Japanese and foreign-language books, spanning archaeology, the arts, and urban studies, alongside ukiyo-e prints and antique maps. Yet, perhaps Isseido’s most captivating feature is not its collection but its historic architecture.
The shop, founded in 1903 by Ukichiro Sakai, began as a lending library and a distributor of magazines and stationery in Niigata. But commerce, ever a guiding force, led him to Kanda-Sarugakuchō, where in 1906, he re-established Isseido as a dedicated bookseller. As is so often the case in Tokyo’s history, disaster reshaped the district—the Great Kantō Earthquake of 1923 left Kanda in ruins. In its wake, nagaya (長屋) rowhouse-style bookstores emerged as part of the city’s reconstruction, with Isseido among the first to rise from the rubble.
When the building was completed in 1931, it stood as the only high-rise in the antiquarian book trade, earning attention and magazine features as a modern architectural marvel. Architecture has a way of narrating history, and the fact that this four-storey structure was once deemed a high-rise is telling—today, it is one of the lowest in the area. Yet it endures, its ground floor wrapped in a near-modernist stone façade, while the upper levels are adorned with compact tiles. The building’s original dark green metalwork, nameplate, flagpole, and stained glass window panels remain intact, resisting the passage of time.
Most of the old row houses, though, have been lost to time. Heading east along Yasukuni-dōri, however, we come upon Ōkubo Shoten (大久保書店), a specialist in geology. While Isseido was celebrated as a high-rise wonder, this 1930-built bookstore exemplifies row-house bookshops' classic architectural and functional principles. Modest at just two storeys, its narrow 3.2-meter frontage belies an interior of surprising depth, drawing visitors inward as the space gently ascends toward the back. Above, a sloping mansard roof—fashionable in 18th- and 19th-century Europe and a hallmark of early Shōwa-era buildings—once served as living quarters for the shop’s owner.
While the Great Kantō Earthquake remains a defining moment in Tokyo’s reconstruction, World War II is the other major turning point. Yet, these row houses predate that. One theory suggests that Jimbōchō was spared from wartime bombings thanks to Edwin O. Reischauer, an American historian and diplomat specialising in Japan. Though anecdotal, the story holds that Reischauer, a distinguished Japanologist and later U.S. ambassador to Japan, advised against targeting Jimbōchō, recognising its immense cultural and intellectual significance as a repository of rare books, historical records, and academic institutions.
Just two buildings down, on the corner, stands Komiyama (小宮山)—an institution in creative circles and a legend in the industry. This four-storey bookstore, founded in 1939, houses an eclectic trove of rare and vintage books, spanning fashion, subculture, literature, philosophy, psychology, history, and fetish culture. It is particularly celebrated for its extensive collection of vintage photo books and fashion magazines.
As owner Keita Komiyma puts it, “You could spend hours browsing and never get bored.” But this is no place for bargain hunters—its prices can be as steep as its staircases. Each floor has a distinct personality; with each ascent, the books become rarer, their price tags more staggering. The building itself is an austere concrete cuboid, its stark brutalism accented by graffiti—a fitting shell for a vault of fine art treasures.
Pressing on, we pass several other notable outlets, including Toyodō Shoten (豊道書店), which specialises in Buddhism and Japanese and East Asian history, and Ōya Shobō (大屋書房), known for its collection of ancient maps and ukiyo-e prints, before reaching a bend in Yasukuni-dōri.
At this point on the walking map, there’s an option for a brief detour into neighbouring Ogawamachi to visit Kagerō Bunko (かげろう文庫), a specialist in photo and picture books. Here, I picked up Gate and Front Yard, a title that later found its way into a past newsletter on gate spotting¹. Along the way, the map highlights a few additional points of interest, and you’ll also catch sight of ‘Sports Town’ (スポーツタウン) on the north side of Yasukuni-dōri—a concentration of shops dedicated to winter sports gear, the other major trade that flourishes in this area.
For the sake of time, we’ll stay on the core route. Here at the bend lies the easternmost entrance to Jimbōchō’s principal shōtengai (商店街) shopping street, Kanda Suzuran-dōri (神田すずらん通り). Long-time readers may remember a previous newsletter where I explored the naming conventions of shōtengai arcades and their tendency to draw from a familiar repertoire². ‘Suzuran’ is one such name, and this Suzuran-dōri is the original. Formalised at the end of the Taishō Era (1912–1926), it was named after its street lanterns, whose delicate form mirrors the suzuran (鈴蘭), or the Lily of the Valley flower. Kanda Suzuran-dōri gained such renown that streets across the city later adopted its name, seeking to channel its atmosphere of liveliness.
Just to the left stands Bunpodo (文房堂), a stationery shop in operation since 1887. Initially an importer of Western stationery, it evolved alongside Kanda’s emergence as a university district, tailoring its offerings to students by producing its own notebooks and sheet music paper before ultimately specialising in art supplies. Bunpodo’s building withstood the earthquake, its survival credited to its reinforced concrete construction—an uncommon feature in its era.
Bunpodo’s façade exemplifies a recurring approach in Japanese construction. In 1990, most of the building was rebuilt at the local ward's and residents' request, with only the original frontage left intact. This method allows the preservation of its Art Deco elegance and early 20th-century modernist details while ensuring the structure meets contemporary seismic standards—ready to withstand the next major earthquake.
As we walk along Suzuran-dōri, its distinctive streetlights overhead, the atmosphere is one of congeniality—an active commercial street with few shuttered storefronts. Bicycles drift past unhurried, and delivery vans dip in and out. Before long, a bold yellow façade catches our eye on the left. This is Magnif, a compact yet commanding shop dedicated to reselling fashion and lifestyle magazines spanning the 1950s to the 2000s.
Magnif is a relative newcomer compared to our previous stops, having opened in 2009. Its philosophy contrasts to the area’s prevailing reverence for the timeless, asserting that while novels and books can be revised and reprinted indefinitely, magazines are fleeting by nature—snapshots of their moment in time, preserving advertisements and cultural shifts exactly as they first appeared. Inside, the shop is a dazzling archive, packed with classic back issues of foreign magazines, from The Face to Elle, alongside Shōwa Era Japanese titles like So-en, Oliva, and Anan.
Directly across from Magnif, an unassuming side street leads back toward Yasukuni-dōri. As we follow it, keeping an eye out for a discreet white vending machine on the right, we notice an exceptionally narrow passage. Looking down the passage, we catch sight of a vertical white kanban sign, its ラドリオ lettering rendered in curvaceous Shōwa-era typography. Hidden beyond it awaits our coffee break destination.
This is Ladrio, a historic café dating back to 1949. Conceived as a literary salon, it became a gathering place for artists and writers. Its founder, Hachirō Shimazaki, originally ran Shimazaki Shoten, a secondhand bookstore specialising in social science texts and Western literature near the University of Tokyo’s main gate. The shop naturally evolved into a meeting ground for students, professors, and literary figures, sparking an idea: rather than just a bookshop, a space where people could read or converse over a drink. Acting on this vision, he acquired a nearby property, where the kissaten occupied the first floor while he and his family lived above.
The café takes its name from the Spanish word ladrillo, meaning “brick.” Designed in the half-timbered architectural style popular at the time, it features bricks sourced from the same supplier as those used in Tokyo Station’s Marunouchi building. Entering, we are immersed in a warm, rustic atmosphere—dark wooden interiors, an eclectic mix of wooden chairs, brick counters, red sofas, and vintage stoves, many of which have remained unchanged since its opening. The air is filled with the sounds of chanson, a genre favoured by the café’s first manager, Aiko Usui.
Ladrio’s signature drink is its Viennese coffee, crowned with a thick layer of chilled whipped cream—a distinction that has earned the café credit as Japan’s first to serve it. I prefer my coffee black, without cream or chocolate, but the presence of Viennese coffee here offers a glimpse into how European influences filtered into Tokyo through Jimbōchō. The inspiration came from a University of Tokyo professor who reminisced about a coffee with a white topping he had in Vienna. Taking note, Usui crafted her own version after spotting a cream-covered cake in a nearby shop—believing the cream helped retain the coffee’s heat, ideal for prolonged literary debates.
Emerging from Ladrio, we loiter a little longer in the narrow alleyways, looping around the block, crossing the shōtengai, and rejoining the main path near Magnif. This slight detour offers a glimpse into the web of lanes behind the shōtengai and their connections with Yasukuni-dōri. In certain moments, it’s possible to sense the Edo-period townscape preserved beneath modern pavements and façades—faint yet persistent traces of an older urban rhythm that continues to live beneath the contemporary streetscape.
As we follow the shōtengai to its endpoint, signalled by a metal archway, one final historic Suzuran establishment awaits. Its striking red entrance frame, accented with deep blue details, evokes the paifang (牌坊) architecture of traditional Chinese gateways, while above, a stylized Beijing opera mask presides over the façade.
Founded in 1906, this Chinese restaurant, Yōsukō Saikan (揚子江菜館), traces its origins to a time when an influx of Chinese students arrived to study at the district’s universities. As they formed a close-knit academic and social community, Chinese bookstores, language schools, and restaurants emerged to serve their needs. Though Jimbōchō’s Chinatown gradually faded, making way for its present-day identity as a book town, Yōsukō Saikan endures as a tangible connection to this past.
For those interested in this history, the other side of Yasukuni-dōri holds the remnants of Tōa Dobunshoin University (東亜同文書院大学), founded in 1900 to foster mutual understanding between Japan and China. Though the university itself is long gone, a commemorative monument now stands on its former site.
Exiting onto Hakusan-dōri, we cross at the pedestrian signals and pass beneath an archway formed by two pink street lamps, inscribed with the name Sakura-dōri (桜通り). Low-key and lined with nondescript buildings, Sakura-dōri may seem inconspicuous now—running quietly parallel to some of Jimbōchō’s most famous bookshops on Yasukuni-dōri—but it was once a street of greater significance.
At the corner stands the Iwanami Building, once home to Iwanami Hall, a cultural institution of considerable influence. In the late 1960s, as plans took shape for multiple metro lines to intersect beneath the area, the Japanese government turned to major publisher Iwanami Shoten, urging them to take on the site’s development.
Iwanami Shoten’s history is intertwined with Jimbōchō. Established in 1913 by Shigeo Iwanami, , a former local teacher, it began as a modest bookshop before transitioning into publishing. The publisher’s breakthrough came in 1914 with the release of Natsume Sōseki’s timeless Kokoro. Over the decades, it grew into one of Japan’s most influential publishing houses, producing scholarly works, literature, and reference materials.
Iwanami Hall opened in 1968, becoming a bastion for independent and foreign cinema, particularly through its Eiga no Kai (Film Society) screenings, which introduced Japanese audiences to lesser-known films from around the world. However, after over half a century of operation, dwindling audiences and financial strain led to its closure in 2022. Once alive with intellectual debate and cinematic discovery, a bank and a suit shop now occupy the space —a reflection of shifting urban priorities.
Still, Sakura-dōri remains a pleasant walkway, lined with Okame-zakura trees and dotted with local businesses—a record shop, a traditional stationery store, and a yōshoku restaurant. To the right, we pass an unremarkable glass-and-metal building, standing where Toyo Kinema (東洋キネマ), or Toyo Cinema, once welcomed audiences. This theatre served as a gateway for mainstream American influences during the 1920s, primarily screening foreign films and functioning as Japan’s exclusive venue for Fox Film releases.
The building was a rare Japanese example of Dadaist architecture, surviving both the Great Kantō Earthquake and the postwar economic boom. However, as the decades passed, its significance waned. By the 1970s, the once-thriving venue had shuttered. When it was finally demolished in 1992 under murky circumstances tied to land speculation and real estate fraud, Sakura-dōri was left bereft of points of interest. Nevertheless, the legacy of Toyo Cinema and Iwanami Hall endures. Jimbōchō is still a destination for cinephiles, with several bookstores and specialty shops devoted to film history, vintage posters, and movie memorabilia.
Another pair of pink lampposts signals our arrival at the end of Sakura-dōri. Alongside sits a classic machi chūka restaurant³ fronting a chamfered corner building, its design evoking the commercial streetscapes of the Shōwa Era. A remnant of a more intimate, small-scale urban past, it stands resilient. Across the intersection, Unagi Imashō occupies its corner lot with elegance, its mid-century faux machiya façade breaking the streetscape’s contemporary flow.
Though I find deep satisfaction in Tokyo’s history, its storied landmarks, and the key establishments that define it, it is often the unplanned moments—pausing at an intersection, the expressway stretching out in the distance, simply seeing what I can spot—that make a day of walking most rewarding.
Heading back north, we reach the intersection of Kijibashi-dōri and Yasukuni-dōri, where more entrances to Jimbōchō Station emerge. Sprawling beneath the surface, the station recalls Ginza Station⁴, albeit on a more modest scale. Retracing our steps along the south side, we pass At Wonder (@ワンダー), one of those shops dedicated to film, followed shortly by Vintage, another treasure trove of movie posters, collector’s pamphlets, pins, and an assortment of cinematic curios.
At Wonder also has a well-curated outdoor reading alleyway, illustrating Jimbōchō’s long-standing tradition of street-side browsing. Here, bookshelves spill naturally into the street, dissolving the boundary between shop and city, placing Book Town on display within the urban fabric itself. Passersby are free to pause, peruse, and lose themselves in a book—some may become customers, while others simply read and go, transforming the street into something of an open-air library.
A few doors down, Kitazawa Bookstore has stood since 1902, originally intended to supply books to university libraries and research institutions. By the mid-1950s, it had transitioned into a specialist in Western antiquarian books, amassing a remarkable collection of approximately 12,000 volumes. Foreign residents, alongside Japanese scholars and literary enthusiasts, are drawn to Kitazawa’s vast selection of English and American literature, displayed with an elegance that evokes the atmosphere of an Oxbridge university library.
By this point, we’ve been into numerous bookshops—hopefully without succumbing to exhaustion or burdening ourselves with more tomes than we can carry. Yet, we must rally our energy reserves for one final and vital outlet.
On the corner ahead, a sublime relic of kanban kenchiku (看板建築), or "signboard architecture", meets the eye. This distinct style of early 20th-century commercial buildings flourished in Japan, particularly during the Taishō and early Shōwa periods. Defined by flat, often highly ornamental façades, kanban kenchiku employs copper, tile, or cement plaster to evoke Western architectural influences—while behind these grand exteriors, traditional wooden frames remain, preserving the Japanese craftsmanship.
The building in question is Yaguchi Shoten (矢口書店)—a landmark of both kanban kenchiku and Jimbōchō itself. With its distinctive façade and an outdoor library spilling onto the pavement, it is arguably the most frequently photographed and filmed image of Book Town, immortalised in media coverage of the area—including my own videos and photos on Instagram this week. And fittingly, in Tokyo Metro’s advertisement, this is the very spot where Maki Horikita selects her book.
Against its mortar-style exterior, a bold signboard declares its specialties: film, theatre, scripts, and plays—firmly establishing it as a haven for performing arts literature. Step inside, and you’ll find shelves lined with materials on cinema and stage, drawing a clientele of film buffs, playwrights, and industry professionals.
At last, just steps beyond Yaguchi Shoten, we arrive at our final stop—the towering nine-story wonder of the Kanda Kosho Centre. Within this literary labyrinth, each floor is home to a different bookshop, ensuring that you can browse to the point of collapse if you haven’t yet reached your limit.
Completed in 1973, the building emerged from a collaboration between Kitazawa Booksellers and Takayama Honten, the latter proudly holding the title of Book Town’s oldest bookseller. But this time, we’re not here for the books. Instead, our attention turns to the revolving lightbox kanban at the entrance—a subtle beacon directing us to the second floor, where the historic curry shop, Bondy, does business.
An antiquarian book centre may seem an unlikely setting for a curry shop—it might never have existed at all. But Kitazawa and Takayama, keen to infuse their venture with a culinary dimension, extended an invitation to Kōichi Murata, proprietor of a well-loved curry shop in the northwest Tokyo suburb of Takashimadaira, to open a branch within the Kosho Center Building. It was a serendipitous decision. From the very beginning, Bondy became a magnet for editors, writers, and booksellers from Jimbōchō’s publishing houses and bookstores, earning a devoted following among the city’s literary and creative circles.
Bondy is another gateway to European culture in Jinbōchō—its distinctive recipe carries the imprint of French cuisine, a nod to owner Murata’s formative years studying painting and sculpture in France. There, he became enamoured with the richness of brown sauce, a fundamental element of French gastronomy, and set out to integrate its depth into a Japanese curry base.
One of Bondy’s most distinctive quirks that often befuddles visitors is serving two plain steamed potatoes as an appetizer. This tradition arose for two key reasons: first, to preserve the integrity of the curry sauce, preventing excess moisture from the potatoes from diluting the roux, and second, to offer diners just a little extra comfort, ensuring they leave wholly satisfied.
Each year across Kanda, the Kanda Curry Grand Prix determines the area’s best curry. According to the organizers, some 300–400 curry restaurants or establishments now serve curry, including yōshoku restaurants, kissaten, and izakaya. A large proportion of these is concentrated within Jimbōchō’s three chōmes, and behind this proliferation lies Bondy’s initial success, which inspired others to set up shop. Indeed, at the inaugural Kanda Curry Grand Prix in 2011, Bondy was crowned the winner—an almost ceremonial mark of respect.
In truth, Bondy is rarely without a queue. Naturally, it’s the restaurant of choice for Maki Horikita—always ahead of the curve, she would have made a fine mid-2020s influencer had her time not come too soon. There’s a certain poetry in concluding a day steeped in history—of bookshops, of architecture—with a meal just as storied. That said, Bondy’s reign at the Grand Prix ended in 2011, and with hundreds of other options scattered across Kanda, there’s no shortage of contenders. If hunger outweighs patience, I’ve marked a few of my favourite alternative spots on the map for those open to going beyond the tried and tested.
In any case, it’s time to retire. We may have covered only a few kilometres today, but if you, like me, find it impossible to resist browsing every shelf and sifting through every box, then you’ve likely been on your feet long enough to have earned a meal.
In some ways, this has been a whistle-stop tour—a rapid immersion into Jimbōchō’s depths. But I could fill an entire book with its stories, each chapter devoted to the life of a single shop. For now, in the absence of such a volume, we’ll have to make do with today’s outline—and let our sense of smell guide us the rest of the way.
Until we meet in Book Town,
AJ
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Footnotes
¹ Gateway & Front Yard
² All Along the Shōtengai
³ Mapo Tofu by Night
⁴ Ginbura Framework