North Shinjuku has a neighbourhood atmosphere that belies the reputation of the broader Shinjuku district. At the centre of its second chōme block, a narrow lane winds between low-rise residential buildings and small shops—a space that is neither fully a shōtengai shopping arcade nor entirely a residential street.
Along this lane stands an unassuming three-storey apartment building from the late 20th century. Its brown brick-tile veneer, rectangular windows, and sparse decorative elements offer little hint of anything remarkable within. Bicycles and motorbikes line the curb, casually leaning against metal barriers that border the pavement.
On the ground floor, the storefront entrance is partly shielded by a translucent brown awning. A single yellow fude-moji (筆文字 ), or brush-script kanji, adorns each of the awning's three central sections, spelling out the establishment's name. Below, frosted windows obscure a brightly lit interior that gently spills fluorescent light onto the street in the night. The diffused glow from within cultivates an understated allure.
It is the modest facade of a shop named Chikuyoken (竹葉軒), to which I'd navigated en route from West Shinjuku to Ōkubo, where I stayed for a few nights on one trip. For those unfamiliar with its particular aesthetic, there is little in passing to suggest that it is a neighbourhood Chinese restaurant. The typical flourishes and mythological imagery that mark Chinese restaurants worldwide are nowhere to be found.
In Chikuyoken's window, faded plastic food replicas display menu items with prices that seem frozen in the Shōwa Era (1926–1989). Few dishes are priced above ¥700-800. Inside, a no-nonsense proprietress greets you and seats you at a table in a modest, canteen-like room. You settle onto a sturdy wooden chair with a practical red cushion, its vinyl-like surface slightly faded from years of use. At the back, the chef—her husband and co-proprietor—works briskly, preparing dish after dish with skilled, steady wok techniques.
Outside of Japan's usual culinary staples, there are several meals I make a point to enjoy at least once on every trip. The offerings of a neighbourhood Chinese restaurant rank high on that list. I tend to reach for the comforting richness of mapo tofu (mápó dòufu, 麻婆豆腐). Transformed into mābō dōfu in Japanese, the dish takes on a gentler, more forgiving flavour, perfectly matched by the soft, rounded texture of Japanese rice.
Explorations of Japanese cultural elements often lead back to China, especially when tracing history to its earlier roots. This truism applies squarely to Japan's staple food—rice. Archaeological evidence of tools, techniques, and early architecture points to China, specifically the Yangtze Delta, as the origin of Japan's rice agriculture. Korea served as an intermediary in this transmission, facilitating the spread of rice farming practices across the region.
Chinese cuisine is believed to have only entered Japanese daily life in the early Edo Period despite China's influence on Japanese culture. In Nagasaki, Japan's sole gateway for foreign trade during the Edo Period, a sizeable Chinese community settled near Dejima, the tiny island designated for international trade. In 1689, the Tōjin Yashiki (唐人屋敷), or "Chinese Quarter," was established nearby to control trade and house Chinese merchants. These merchants often brought cooks and servants from China, whose culinary practices would go on to influence Japanese cuisine.
As the Edo Period came to an end, the warehouses and businesses established by Chinese merchants persisted as a central presence in the area. By 1859, with Japan officially reopening to international trade, these mercantile roots coalesced into what is now Nagasaki's Shinchi Chinatown (新地中華街), formalising the district and its cultural influence. Similar Chinatowns soon developed in other port cities, including Kobe and Yokohama.
As I sit in restaurants like Chikuyoken, gazing down at my steaming mābō dōfu and side of Japanese rice, my thoughts often drift toward comparisons. Classic mapo tofu is defined by its bold spiciness, blending conventional heat with the signature málà (麻辣), the numbing spice unique to Sichuan cuisine. But Japan's mābō dōfu is quite different, having been adapted over time. Indeed, restaurants that serve the dish in this style differ from authentic Chinese restaurants; they belong to an elusive category known as machi chūka (町中華).
The first character, 町 (machi), translates to "town" or "neighbourhood," conveying the sense of a local establishment that serves its community. The second part, 中華 (chūka), translates approximately to "Chinese-style," reflecting the cuisine's central influence on these restaurants. The character 中 (chū) means "middle" or "central" and is often used as shorthand for "China," as seen in the Japanese term for China itself, 中国 (Chūgoku). The character 華 (ka), meaning "splendour" or "flourish," evokes a richness often associated with Chinese culture. Together, we might interpret the term as "Neighbourhood Chinese-Style."
Most machi-chūka (町中華) restaurants are family-run establishments, now frequently operated by second, third, or even fourth-generation owners. In addition to my favorite mābō dōfu, their menus often feature Chinese-inflected dishes like chāhan (炒飯, Fried Rice) and subuta (酢豚, Sweet and Sour Pork). Additionally, offerings from yōshoku (洋食), or Japanese-style Western cuisine appear: katsu, omuraisu, and curry rice. Regular readers will know I often speak of yōshoku, a frequent choice on long walks in Tokyo, despite its conflict with my health and fitness goals.
At first glance, omuraisu might seem an odd addition to a Chinese-inspired menu. Yet both Chinese and Western cuisines developed along parallel timelines in Japan, each adapting to local ingredients in distinct yet overlapping ways. By around 1910, restaurants of both styles began to establish themselves in major cities, and by 1923, Tokyo alone hosted approximately 1,000 Chinese restaurants alongside around 5,000 yōshokuya.
Machi chūka's eclectic menu reflects the evolution of the dining style, where Japanese comfort foods are paired with familiar Chinese flavours. By contrast, you might hear the type of food still served in the port Chinatowns, such as those in Yokohama or Kobe, referred to as gachi-chūka (ガチ中華), focusing on authentic or near-authentic Chinese dishes without adaptation to Japanese tastes.
Kitauo Toro, a culinary writer and head of the machi chūka Exploration Team (町中華探検隊), a food culture preservation group, describes having attempted to define machi chūka by its menu and appearance. Ultimately, he concluded that “machi chūka defies definition” due to its many exceptions. However, in his book Machi Chūka to wa Nanda (町中華とはなんだ, “What is machi chūka?”), he manages to identify a few overarching characteristics:
- Founded pre-Shōwa Era (before 1926)
- Provides filling meals for under 1,000 yen
- Features a wide-ranging menu
- Has an idiosyncratic owner
Toro further suggests that the critical factors behind the survival of these old establishments include a distinctive flavour, a loyal local customer base, and low rent or staffing costs. Perhaps most importantly, he notes the absence of a service manual, portraying machi chūka as freewheeling establishments, each doing things in its own way.
In his book The History and Culture of Japanese Food, renowned anthropologist and food historian Naomichi Ishige explores the popularity of specific dishes in these settings. One dish, in particular, stands out:
The most popular Chinese restaurant dish was shina soba—noodles in pork or chicken broth topped with pork slices and seasoned with black pepper. From about 1918 on, peddlers on the city streets also widely sold this dish at night, fitting in with the established evening custom of eating Japanese-style noodles at street stalls. The noodles used in shina soba, as well as the soup, the toppings, the flavouring and even the customary bowl, were all developed in Japan; neither the dish nor its constituents were to be found in China.
The term shina, an archaic reference to China, came to be viewed as derogatory after the Second Sino-Japanese War (1937–1945). Another traditional term, chūka soba (中華そば), remains in occasional use. After the Second World War, both terms gradually gave way to "ramen" (ラーメン), a name adapted from the Mandarin lāmiàn (拉麵). By the late 1950s, "ramen" had become widely popular and was in line for a place as one of Japan's national dishes. As this week's newsletter isn't focused on ramen, we'll set this story aside for another time. Suffice it to say, however, that the mighty ramen has its roots in machi chūka. The tale of gyōza follows a similar trajectory.
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As with Western-style restaurants, many machi chūka chefs are Japanese. In one of his short documentaries on YouTube, Paolo from Tokyo interviews the fourth-generation owner of Asahi, a 120-year-old machi chūka restaurant in Asakusa. Paolo's videos are upbeat and approachable, but he typically asks incisive questions beyond the light-hearted background music.
In the interview, Paolo asks Asahi's owner why the family initially chose Chinese cuisine for their business. He explains that his grandparents likely saw an opportunity; before WWII, international food was rare in Japan, and Chinese-inspired dishes were beginning to gain appeal. They were practical, easily paired with rice, and well-suited to chopsticks.
The owner-chef explains what he sees as the main differences between Chinese and Japanese-Chinese food, particularly in seasoning. Japanese soy sauce, he notes, is salty, while Chinese soy sauce is sweeter. Japanese rice is also stickier, making separating the grains harder when preparing fried rice. He adds that Chinese cuisine relies heavily on jiàng (酱)—ingredients like dòubànjiàng (豆瓣酱, fermented bean paste)—which are less commonly used in Japanese cooking.
Even so, flavours vary widely, and as Kitauo Toro observes, there's no strict definition of machi chūka fare. Such is the range and appeal of machi chūka that an entire television show on BS-TBS is dedicated to it. In Machi Chūka De Yarō Ze (町中華で飲ろうぜ), or "Let's Drink at a Machi Chūka," hosts with a passion for local drinking visit Chinese eateries across Japan, enjoying the best dishes, drinks, and memorable interactions each spot offers. I have a Google Maps list filled with machi chūka spots I've noted down over a long stretch of watching the show.
Much like kissatens, ramen shops, izakayas, and many other establishments across Tokyo, I resist the idea of "top" or "must-visit" lists, so numerous are the options. This perspective makes it tricky to give specific recommendations, but if you're interested in a machi chūka dining experience, try a location-based search for "町中華" from wherever you find yourself and see what appears nearby. Almost anywhere in Tokyo, you'll find a few options within walking distance. This mission might even lead you to a quiet, unfamiliar corner of the neighbourhood you would not have otherwise explored—much like my discovery in North Shinjuku. You may or may not find an English menu, and the idiosyncratic owner likely has no interest in speaking English. Still, you can always gesture toward a faded plastic replica of a ramen bowl.
There is a certain urgency to experience machi chūka while the restaurants remain vibrant. Over time, they face Japan's familiar challenges: an ageing society, urban redevelopment, and a lack of successors. These modest eateries have long satisfied local appetites with their distinctive, nostalgic fare, yet many now stand at risk. This predicament is why the Machi Chūka Exploration Team exists, with a mission to honour and preserve these local restaurants as a cherished part of Japan's culinary culture—through exploration and documentation.
I hope to contribute by sharing a little of what I love about the cuisine with you here. Perhaps this week's newsletter will inspire you to follow the scent of frying rice into an unassuming neighbourhood at night, guided by the clatter of pots and pans, until you find yourself in the glow of a machi chūka restaurant.
Until we meet under those fluorescent lights,
AJ