Prelude
Shōkei Matsumoto, a Shin-Buddhist monk at Kōmyō-ji, a modest temple in Kamiyachō, Tokyo, contends that tidying is not just about organising our physical spaces but serves as an act of eliminating gloom in our hearts and cultivating the mind. This monk should know—he has authored a range of books on the themes of cleaning, tidying, and contemporary spirituality from a Buddhist perspective. He is also a master in the modern art of personal branding, which he appears to balance well with monastic duties.
At the beginning of each week, as I prepare to work, I make it a point to clear my desk of any unnecessary items, a practice that sharpens my focus and allows me to channel a little Shōkei Matsumoto. It is not excessive clutter, but insidious, easily overlooked items that we might unconsciously feel are necessary—an empty glass, two books, my phone, and earbuds.
This morning, I extended the ritual to my computer. Over the last fortnight, an assortment of digital files had accumulated on my desktop. Among them, a screenshot of a photo uploaded to Twitter in 2019 of a tiny playground in Tokyo between concrete buildings, its sole piece of equipment a forlorn panda ride. It was an artefact of research from a previous newsletter where I inquired into compact urban parks in the metropolis. The panda ride, visible as a thumbnail, had been catching my attention daily—I'd thought about it quite a bit.
The concept of digital clutter expands beyond the desktop to imagery as a whole. Consider the act of viewing social media in the morning—the longer you can avoid it after waking up, the clearer your head, and the easier it is to bring purpose to the day’s work. Succumbing to the temptation of scrolling first thing in the morning, even if only long enough to see one image, can derail your thoughts and inadvertently prompt ruminations on various topics, individuals, and occurrences—subjects you initially had no plans to contemplate.
I try to move on from work when it is complete, ensuring that previous projects do not hinder new ones. Yet, the panda ride had repeatedly interrupted my thoughts as a result of my untidy desktop. In the newsletter featuring the panda ride, I’d extolled the virtues of observing subtleties in the city to gain a deeper understanding of Tokyo, but it was nagging at me—I realised I had not thoroughly investigated the panda ride itself prior to citing the widely circulated Twitter post it featured in. This oversight demanded resolution.
The park housing the panda ride, known as Kin Kin Hiroba or 'Open Space', occupies 76 square metres in Kanda's Nishikicho—a valuable plot of land a mere 15-minute walk from the Imperial Palace. The choice of panda is a rhyming pun with Kanda. Previously, I’d theorised that the park was a placeholder for redevelopment, and found an interview with Hideto Mitsumoto, General Manager at the Urban Renaissance Agency, which oversees the park, where he confirmed that indeed is the case. The lot was once just another short-stay, income-generating car park, but the agency converted it into a public space. It is laudable despite the quirky execution. My conjecture regarding the panda ride’s design and solitary placement, theorising it stemmed from safety considerations, found substantiation in a Nippon TV News article.
I felt I'd seen the park before happening upon it in my newsletter research, and surely enough, it has appeared on a TV Asahi show I watch occasionally called Nanikore Chin Hyakkei, which showcases bizarre and amusing submissions from viewers nationwide. Kin Kin Hiroba is also featured in the manga serial Jashin-chan Dropkick (Dropkick on My Devil!), and was later vividly animated in the anime adaptation. TV appearances and manga-anime fame had already attracted curious viewers to the plaza, well before it gained attention on Twitter.
Some fans call for the park to be made into a heritage site, halting the progress of the planned urban development. While a number of commentators highlight its peculiarity, there's a tangible sentiment among others that the panda ride possesses a certain emotive quality. Under the Japanese Instagram hashtag #キンキン広場, one finds models posing on the ride, flagrantly ignoring its 40kg weight limit, alongside a range of artistically directed photography. Small local festivals also take place here: I discovered an entry on the Urban Renaissance Agency's blog demonstrating how the space was once filled with benches and exercise equipment but was decluttered to make room for events like a plant potting day for local children. This minimal approach would surely resonate with Shōkei Matsumoto.
Kin Kin Hiroba alone is enough for some to make a special trip to Kanda Nishikicho, whether they are anime aficionados or photographers keen on distilling the park’s urban charm into a single, flawless photograph. Yet, with my tangential research craving satisfied, I’m keen not to dwell too long or drag it out into a full-length newsletter feature. Just as I began to fret over how I'd connect this diversion to the theme planned for this week's newsletter, I noticed the park’s next-door neighbour: a 50 years established coffee shop named Kissa Poupee.
Kissa Poupee’s modest yet welcoming façade adds a distinct retro flair to the utilitarian mid-century concrete building it sits at the base of. A whimsical, oversized ice cream cone signals that the shop is open for business, complemented by a revolving lightbox kanban (sign) featuring a line art figure that lends a burst of character to its unselfconscious branding approach. The scene is completed by neatly arranged pot plants in front of a strip of faux red brick cladding, cleverly concealing the stark underlying concrete.
Inside, the café's interior has a cosy atmosphere, steeped in a warm wooden palette that adorns the walls and furniture. Chairs with a design that pays homage to timeless European and American Colonial styles, crafted from durable hardwood, capped with finials and upholstered with a red leatherette covering, are placed around small tables and booths. The bar area is compact and efficient, showcasing an array of cups and coffee-making equipment. Soft lighting emanates from classic, wall-mounted fixtures, adding to the relaxed and inviting ambiance. Decorations are sparse yet tasteful, with framed pictures and small posters irregularly placed along the walls, providing visual interest without overwhelming the space.
The lunch menu is straightforward: a choice of pirafu (pilaf), mito sōsu (meat sauce), Naporitan (Napolitan) or Miranēze (Milanese) spaghetti. But the main attraction is the homemade curry, which has been passed down through generations and routinely reaches the Kanda Curry Grand Prix finals. Naturally, the owner is particular about the coffee beans he uses too. A roaster in Meguro makes a special blend for Kissa Poupee, a traditional, slightly deep-roasted bean, which is praised by customers for its excellent taste, whether served hot or iced. A full-bodied coffee after curry is somewhat of an assault on the digestive system, but it's surprisingly satisfying following the spicy chocolate notes of Japanese-style curry.
The atmosphere seems suspended in time, suggesting that this establishment has served as a quiet retreat for many over the years. This was the subject I intended to explore in today’s writing session, before the distractions of digital imagery led me off-piste. This is what makes a journey to the otherwise inconspicuous Kanda Nishikicho worthwhile for me. Indeed, it is a fine old kissaten.
The Newsletter
My first kissaten was a small shop in Matsudo, with an exterior and interior not dissimilar to Kissa Poupee. It was gently time-worn, possessing the same familiar characteristics. Matsudo is a crucial commuter town and a hub of regional commerce, straddling the confluence of Chiba, Saitama, and Tokyo proper. The area has an astringency that complements kissaten culture. However, the streetscape has undergone significant changes in the past 14 years, and I don’t remember the name of the shop I visited—I didn’t take any notes. At the time, I knew nothing of kissaten and held no expectations. I remember being taken with the dark wooden interior and compact furniture, the brisk, matter-of-fact service, and the robust hand-drip coffee. I was intrigued by the menu; spaghetti and curry in a coffee shop. I left in a hurry when a friend arrived to pick me up, departing with little more knowledge than when I’d entered but carrying an impression of an atmosphere I wanted to seek out again.
The word kissaten combines three kanji characters: 喫, meaning 'to consume', 茶, which translates to 'tea', and 店, signifying 'shop'. Thus, 'kissaten' directly translates to ‘tea consuming shop’, and as is often the case in the Japanese language, the term is affectionately shortened to kissa, hence Kissa Poupee. Despite its direct translation, it has over time become more synonymous with coffee than tea.
During the late Tokugawa Period (1603–1868) in the port city of Nagasaki, a literary figure named Ōta Shokusanjin recorded his initial encounter with coffee, marking the first known Japanese documentation of the beverage. He noted:
Aboard the kogebune, I was offered something called "kauhī", a drink made from beans roasted black and ground into powder. It was sweetened with sugar but tasted burnt and was unbearable.
It is widely believed that Dutch traders, stationed on Dejima—an artificial island established as a trading post—first introduced coffee to Japan. Historical accounts, including Ōta’s, imply that initially, coffee did not appeal to the Japanese palate. The idea of uniform national tastes strikes me as overly simplistic. I wonder whether the Dutch weren’t over-extracting their beans; perhaps grinding too finely or brewing with scalding water. Japan may have just needed to adopt coffee on its own terms and fine-tune the foreign habit. Predictably, Japanese companies would eventually begin manufacturing some of the world’s best coffee equipment around the mid-century, and more recently, Japan has produced a World Barista Champion in Hidenori Izaki. Long before these developments, though, courtesans and Tokugawa Yoshinobu, the 15th shogun, had already taken a liking to the novel, brown drink from abroad, marking the beginning of Japan’s coffee embrace.
Japan’s first coffee shop, an early precursor to the kissaten, is acknowledged to be Kahi Chakan, a café that opened in Ueno in 1888 during the Meiji Era (1868–1912). Kahi Chakan provided entertainment such as cards and billiards, domestic and international newspapers and books, as well as amenities like dressing rooms and showers. The goal of its masutā (master), as male proprietors of small cafés and restaurants are known, was to create a venue for intellectual nourishment and cultural interaction over coffee. The café wasn’t founded with the general populace in mind, charging 1.5 to 2 sen per cup of coffee, approximately twice the cost of a bowl of soba, making it a luxury.
After Kahi Chakan shut its doors in 1892, the prototype for the modern kissaten emerged in Ginza at the end of the Meiji Era, in 1911. A painter, Shozo Matsuyama, inspired by his time in Paris, aimed to recreate the ambience of Parisian cafés. His vision resulted in Café Printemps, which became a gathering place for creatives and intellectuals. The café introduced what would now be considered a membership subscription model. Notables from various cultural fields, including authors like Kafu Nagai and Ogai Mori, as well as geisha from Shimbashi and Akasaka, held memberships, costing 50 sen—a baller move at the time.
Not long after, entrepreneur and politician Ryū Mizuno, whose immigration company transported the first Japanese immigrants to Brazil in 1908 aboard the Kasato Maru, would leave a lasting legacy by opening Café Paulista, named after the residents of São Paulo. With its more affordable coffee, Paulista serviced a broader clientele, becoming Japan's first coffee chain. Paulista, still operating in Ginza, stands as the longest established kissaten in Japan. It's worth a visit if you're in the vicinity or if you're a kissaten completist, though it may not offer the pilgrimage you might expect from a coffee shop of 110 years. The original kissaten was housed in an elegant white-fronted townhouse-style building, as old photographs reveal, yet its present-day setting is a nondescript 1970s office block.
The more new wave Café Lion later emerged with an emphasis on alcohol, yōshoku (Western food), and a service model centred around female waitresses. I’ve encountered suggestions that this development presaged the "maid cafe" phenomenon. In 1924, Café Tiger opened up shop directly opposite Café Lion, igniting a rivalry between the two big cats. The kissaten scene subsequently divided into two camps: those emulating the Tiger and Lion model, serving alcohol and offering female companionship for men, and the traditionalists dedicated to coffee and light meals, termed junkissa or 'pure kissatens'. Over time, the lines between these distinctions faded, and the hostess element evolved into separate, distinct businesses. The standard kissaten formula crystalised: a foundation of coffee and yōshoku with alcohol optional, and no young women to entertain male patrons.
Amidst World War II, coffee bean imports were restricted, leading people to turn to substitutes like dandelion and burdock root. It wasn’t until the late '40s that kissaten began to regenerate, initially offering substitute coffee before transitioning back to the real thing as imports resumed in the '50s. It was during this period that the kissaten aesthetic we recognise today started to take shape. From the 1970s onwards, coffee consumption surged in popularity, and chain kissaten such as Café Colorado, appeared in the urban landscape. Colorado was the inaugural coffee chain of Doutor Coffee Co., Ltd, whose Doutor brand has since become a ubiquitous franchise nationwide—offering a Starbucks-esque experience complete with mediocre flattecino coffee. Nonetheless, a few Café Colorado branches persist, and I prefer them to Doutor any day. Kissa Poupee in Kanda, originally a family-run sandwich shop, was transformed into a kissaten, a shrewd business choice to capitalise on the burgeoning kissaten trend.
During a sweet spot in the 1960s, kissaten were predominantly privately owned and operated, with those that reflected the owner's personal tastes winning the coffee-drinking public's favour. This focus on individuality gave rise to various subcategories of kissaten, especially those centred around music. Utagoe Kissaten were sing-along affairs where participation in the chorus was expected, a trend that later gave way to karaoke bars and booths. Meikyoku Kissaten welcome guests to enjoy their beverages while listening to classical music, often with the option to request specific pieces. Jazz Kissaten cater to aficionados of recorded jazz music, offering an environment focused on deep listening rather than relegating jazz to background music. Extensive music libraries, soft lighting, and a selection of coffee or hard drink await at a jazz kissa; a unique atmosphere for immersive music experiences, more akin to an audiophile's listening room than a coffee shop.
Jazz, perhaps more than any other genre, seems to be in accord with the essence of kissatens. The jazz enthusiast proprietors, who dedicate their lives to the intimate confines of their establishments, would agree. Phillip Arneill, now a prolific Jazz Kissa photographer after publishing his book Tokyo Jazz Joints with broadcaster James Catchpole, eloquently recounts his initial encounter with a Jazz Kissa named Chokuritsu Enjin, marking the commencement of his journey in kissaten photography:
It didn't disappoint. It had all the features we'd experience again and again over the months and years ahead: an impossibly narrow staircase, a cramped space yellowed from years of cigarette smoke, unimaginable memorabilia, a treasure trove of vinyl, priceless high-end audio equipment,and kind and generous owners. It would turn out to be only one of hundreds of temples to jazz dotted right across the country - personal, passionate homages to a music deeply embedded in Japan's modern musical culture.
Chokuritsu Enjin translates cleverly as 'Pithecanthropus Erectus', uncoincidentally the title of a Charles Mingus album, hinting at the profound knowledge that Jazz Kissa masters and patrons possess. Tokyo Jazz Joints is a photographic account of this intensely passionate world. Arneill's aim was to document Jazz Kissas, driven by the feeling that their presence in Japan’s musical landscape will soon diminish. I received my copy just in time for this week’s newsletter. It is not a guide but an artistic portrayal, where photographs are sequenced by the artist's own rhythm and vision. Each image conveys the delight and the poignant sense of loss that accompanies these incredible yet dwindling spaces. The book carries a yearning familiar to my feelings towards kissaten at large, and broader trends in Japan, including the loss of architectural heritage and rural depopulation.
Regrettably, kissaten are in decline. Their number fell by almost half from 154,630 in 1981 to 69,977 in 2014. There is a tinge of heartbreak about this prospect of loss felt by many, and in recent years, kissaten revivalism has grown. Akin to vinyl records and film photography, I believe that there are enough enthusiasts to keep kissaten from completely diminishing. Some kissaten are even overcrowded due to online popularity. In spring 2021 I passed by an empty Kissa You in Ginza, and felt it was an attractive little kissaten I’d like to visit one day. When I did return later that year, I arrived to find a long queue. A Google search revealed that it had been discovered and dubbed “Tokyo’s best omuraisu,” which a great many people are willing to queue for over an hour to partake in.
Nostalgia for the Shōwa Era has become a full-fledged area of interest in Japan, manifesting as a vibrant and youthful niche that occasionally intersects with the mainstream. Exploring a Japanese Instagram hashtag like #昭和レトロ (Shōwa Retro) brings up 2.2 million images of weathered mid-century buildings, servings of curry and Naporitan, decrepit vending machines, 1960s interiors, and—crucially—exquisite kissatens. It is part of a larger narrative about Japan and nostalgia, which is experienced nationally for one set of reasons, and for another by foreign visitors, who can be found across Reddit threads and TikTok reels discussing a feeling of existential pain after their trips to the country are over. We’ll have to save that analysis for a later date.
Broader coffee culture in Tokyo, however, thrives. The city is rich with contemporary coffee shops run by skillful young baristas who adopt a global perspective. Their focus lies on sourcing the highest quality beans and calculating the perfect espresso, set against interiors that fuse minimal aesthetics with a wafū (Japanese style) undercurrent. In a kissaten, coffee is almost exclusively hand-dripped. Despite its origins as a cultural import, there is something about this method that feels rooted in Japanese tradition. Kissatens are usually the antithesis of minimalism; you’ll find none of Shōkei Matsumoto’s books on their shelves. At the same time, the best kissaten foster presence of mind. Such experiences might unfold during quiet times spent with a book, in long conversations with the proprietor reminiscing about Ginza's golden era, or while appreciating the complex beauty of a Charles Mingus track. Time spent in a kissaten becomes about the solace of a cup of coffee that evokes the simplicity of the past, and it is most certainly about eliminating gloom in our hearts.
Recent Kissaten
Despite their decline and the notable gap between the younger revivalists and their traditionally older clientele, the city harbors enough kissas to guarantee that a leisurely walk through its neighbourhoods, shōtengai, or around transport hubs will likely lead to a hand-drip coffee and a plate of pilaf. Kissaten invite two modes of exploration: they can be surprises encountered by chance while wandering through a neighbourhood or enroute to an attraction, or be deliberately made the centrepieces around which a walk is designed.
I have three kissatens to share with you today. This isn't a definitive "top three" or "must-visit" list, but rather a modest selection of spots I encountered and enjoyed on my recent travels. They embody a fragment of the kissaten spectrum, with still another 69,974 to explore across the country.
Kissa New Prince
4-6-1 Nakanobu, Shinagawa City, Tokyo 142-0053
I noticed New Prince before setting out to explore Higashi-Nakanobu, an expansive low-rise neighbourhood that is certain to become the subject of a long, rambling neighbourhood walk newsletter soon. The kissaten’s building, located near the entrance to Nakanobu station, is a two-story structure with a textured finish framed by mock Tudor-style beams. Faux stone and brick cladding gives it a homely cottage feel—I count five different varieties. It's like a cladding texture swatch. Three separate Japanese fonts, in decorative, Gothic, and Minchō styles, display the kissa’s name across its ornamented revolving lightbox and the flag-mounted signage, in addition to a narrow Roman sans-serif with the English. Space is also reserved for an indication that the shop uses coffee beans from Toa Coffee Co., Ltd, a wholesaler that seems to stock many kissaten. Statues, flowers, and potted plants complete the scene, accentuating a latticed wooden door that doesn’t provide much of a look inside, meaning the only thing to do is enter.
Inside, the mosaic of textures continues. New Prince consists of a narrow room with warm, dim lighting, wood, faux brick, and stone panelled walls, vintage furniture, and a counter bar lined with round stools upholstered in brown leather. Shelves filled with an assortment of crockery and ornaments add to the ambiance, hinting at a history replete with personal touches and stories. This isn't an artificially constructed Shōwa Era interior; it's the genuine— slightly maximalist—article. The kind owner serves a rich blended coffee in decorative cups. The mikusu sando (mixed sandwich) meets expectations, and a splendidly presented purin (pudding) stands out as the menu's highlight.
The Enka star Hibari Misora singing jazz standards in Japanese fills the room. It is the ideal kissaten soundtrack. Upon my entrance, the only other customers were friends of the owner, chatting casually at the bar on a Thursday afternoon. Within the hour, a mix of patrons streamed in and out of the space, including younger customers who came to quietly read and sip coffee, a couple on a date, and a backpacker who had found his way to this less frequented district. The owner doesn't speak English, but she makes every effort to accommodate. The tables, featuring a world map encased in glass with coffee beans suitably placed at the centre, hint at an international perspective.
Coffee Bashiriko
3-15-16 Ginza, Chuo City, Tokyo 104-0061
Bashiriko’s building is a small, brown-fronted box on a plot of land that must have been subdivided more than once over the years to achieve such a narrow width. The phenomenon of subdivision is common across Tokyo, but it is especially pertinent in Ginza, where this kissaten occupies some of the city's most expensive land. The ground-level façade is almost a miniaturised version of New Prince, distilled to its essential elements: wooden beams, a single strip of faux brick, an old-fashioned mock gas lamp, and a lightbox kanban, complemented by a few select pot plants. So close is the building to the larger office behind it that its ventilation unit is positioned at the front of the shop. A vivid red awning featuring the word ‘coffee’ in an uppercase '60s font and ‘Bashiriko’ in hiragana characters draws the eye to the doorway, through which very little can be seen.
The mood inside falls into a category of café ambiance that I can only describe as library-like. The air is dead silent, and the master sits sternly in front of his counter at the back of the shop awaiting orders. Where shops like New Prince create an environment reminiscent of a welcoming living room, Bashiriko represents a different aspect of hospitality spaces in Japan, characterised by a subdued yet high-tension atmosphere. This ambiance is akin to what one might find at high-end counter dining establishments and tea ceremony pavilions. However, the interiors here are not so austere; this kissaten resembles a tiny ski cabin in the Swiss Alps, outfitted with mid-century British tables and chairs. Clocks, photos, and calendars adorn the walls, and the curtains remain drawn, offering seclusion from the outside.
The menu features Naporitan, pirafu, and, unexpectedly, the Creole dish Jambalaya. Not ready to eat yet, I ordered only a coffee. Bashiriko offers a few different roasts tailored for different times of day. Being late afternoon at this point, and having consumed a fair amount of caffeine throughout the day already, I selected the afternoon blend, which comes in a small cup and is delicately light. Finishing up, I continued my stroll around the Higashi-Ginza area, a surprisingly quiet network of backstreets off of Shōwa-dōri, set back from the spectacle of central Ginza.
Burazā
2-13-2 Asakusa, Taito City, Tokyo 111-0032
For much of the day, Asakusa isn’t my kind of atmosphere. Without arriving extremely early in the morning or late at night, traversing the crowds can be challenging. However, long walks around the shitamachi low-city from one neighbourhood to the next often lead through this area. On one such occasion, two of us stopped for a quick coffee at Burazā (Brother), drawn in by its red brick building and the faded plastic plates of Naporitan, hambāgu, and omuraisu showcased in a glass display out front.
As kissaten go, this place is raucous. The velveteen soft furnishings have absorbed several lifetimes' worth of cigarette smoke from men gathered around the television, engrossed in horse racing. The proximity to WINS Asakusa, a historic off-track horse racing ticket office from the '50s, explains why Burazā serves as a venue for watching the races. An eccentric, hardcore-looking group, who I take to be part of Tokyo’s outsider arts scene, engages in animated discussions at the back. This isn’t a spot for tranquil reflection, and fair warning: smoking isn’t just tolerated in Burazā—though ashtrays on tables are a common sight in old kissatens—the air is dense with smoke that significantly clouds the room.
Service is curt, and the coffee, clearly brewed in bulk and served from a tap, is average. In many respects, it diverges from the types of establishments I've highlighted earlier. Its decor is light on the nostalgic details that typically draw in revivalists. Burazā is rarely featured in hashtags. However, if you can tolerate smoke, it epitomises a raw, working-class kissaten—a genuine snapshot of what many of Japan’s 150,000+ kissatens might have resembled before their numbers began to wane in the 1980s, before enthusiasts started to seek and document them. There's an argument to be made for buying a ticket from WINS Asakusa, joining the regulars in front of the TV, and breathing it in while we can, as kissaten culture stands at a critical intersection.
Until we meet in a smoky kissaten,
AJ
Books
Music
Misora Hibari – Jazz & Standards
Newsletters of Reference
Tokyotheque #3: Expressway Shakkei
Last Week’s Newsletter
Tokyotheque #6: Tokyo's Hanamachi Parisienne