In Tokyo, the modest dining budget goes far. The city's soul food, served by B-kyū gurume (B-grade gourmet) establishments, provides unparalleled cost performance: yakisoba, okonomiyaki, kushiage, udon. The pre-packaged meals of convenience stores and supermarkets frequently surpass the offerings of typical Japanese restaurants abroad. Meanwhile, a culinary-focused trip with a generous budget for eating out can transport you to some of the globe's most exquisite restaurants, leading to blissful, taste-driven states of euphoria—a kind of gastronomic drugging.
Time spent in Tokyo is bound to be accompanied by a range of Japanese cuisine. The choice is overwhelming, so understandably, we might overlook the mastery of other world culinary styles that quietly takes place in small restaurants throughout the city. Among these, I often single out Japanese-Italian cuisine as an essential non-Japanese meal for friends to experience. I say “non-Japanese”, but Japanese chefs with their command of delicate, simple tomato sauces, and the fusion of Japanese flavours with pasta, cousin to the noodle, is the main attraction. It's a suggestion that slips off the tongue, but if you truly only make room for one European-style meal, that sadly means neglecting the equally impressive French cuisine in Japan.
While Tokyo offers a mosaic of everything everywhere, there are also particular streets and neighbourhoods where groupings of specialist establishments have clustered over time. A concentration of a particular subset of outlet, service, or cuisine gathers, leading to reliable footfall and competitive quality. By locating the right area for that which you seek, you're almost guaranteed to find it, and in its highest form, no less. Comparable areas exist in other cities worldwide. Take Paris' mini-Japanese enclave along Rue Sainte-Anne in Opera, for example, or the antique dealers of West London and the wholesale clothing markets of Bangkok. Yet, Tokyo’s specialised commercial areas operate on a different plane. Consider Kappabashi-dōri: it transcends being merely a shopping area for cookware to become the zenith of cookware shopping experiences globally. There is no kitchen equipment or restaurant industry paraphernalia that the outlets of Kappabashi cannot furnish you with.
In addressing the zenith of French cuisine in Tokyo, I've struggled to concisely compose a newsletter that captures the atmosphere, history, and offerings of the area at hand. Thus, this week's edition is a lengthy one, so settle in. Our exploration takes us to Shinjuku City, via the Tokyo Metro Tozai Line, exiting from the West exit of Iidabashi JR station and proceeding to Ushigome Bridge. It's worth spending a moment here—during the Tokugawa period (1603–1867) this bridge was a crucial crossing over the outer moat of Edo Castle, the residence of the Tokugawa Shoguns, thereby positioning it at the centre of Japan's political sphere. At the Southeast foot of the bridge, the remnants of the watchtower Ushigome Mitsuke, which once overlooked the outer moat and served as a gateway to Edo Castle, still stand. The Iidabashi area developed around this historic route.
We're heading northwest, away from Ushigome Mitsuke. At the bridge's opposite foot, you'll encounter a broad intersection, beyond which a hill ascends. At first glance, it resembles any other busy street in central Tokyo—the usual mix of chain establishments crowd the entrance, accompanied by estate agents and a proliferation of zakkyo buildings housing darts bars, barber shops, massage parlours, and insurance brokers. I gave my appraisal of this type of building in a newsletter a few weeks ago. There's a storied history behind the development of zakkyo buildings in this area, which I’ll come back to later.
Despite initial appearances, this hill offers something distinct—it is the central avenue of Tokyo’s esteemed Kagurazaka district. Kagura 神楽 translates to 'music performed during Shinto rituals', and Saka 坂 (voiced as Zaka) signifies 'hill' or 'incline'. The name hints at a past where kagura music was played while ascending the slope toward the area’s important shrines during festivals. It's a word that rings with a sense of joy when I hear it, linking the spiritual with the geographical landscape in a way that suits its setting.
The walking guide Tokyo Sanpo Zukan by Studio Work, which I followed loosely, presents a poetic description of Kagurazaka’s layout. I hope my translation enriches this framework:
Kagurazaka unfolds like a tree: Kagurazaka-dōri, its trunk; the alleys, its branches; the restaurants, its leaves. Each element bears distinct traits, and the enjoyment of Kagurazaka lies in deciphering them.
It's a layout that beckons exploration. The central avenue, the tree’s trunk, is rich in texture and detail, making it tempting to continue the ascent directly ahead. However, I’m up for venturing onto the side streets at the earliest chance. This opportunity is signalled by a time-worn flower shop on the left, beyond which a narrow passage lined with small-scale restaurants branches into the backstreets.
Following Oguri-dōri, which runs parallel to Kagurazaka-dōri, is a pleasant though uneventful stroll past the Tokyo University of Science, one of Japan's oldest private universities. Across the street, Porta Kagurazaka stands as a joint redevelopment project by local landowners and Tokyo University of Science, offering a shortcut to the main street. At the back is a cafe named Toredo, established in 1972, which dishes out old-school yōshoku (Japanese ‘western’ cuisine) classics like naporitan, tonkatsu, kareraisu, and the filling dish known as torokoraisu, which combines all the aforementioned on one generous plate. The latter is more typically found in Nagasaki than Tokyo, and I adore yōshoku, so I have to resist the temptation to pad myself out with torokoraisu. It’s early and there's walking to do.
The path narrows, and we come upon Atami-yu, a local sento (public bath) that has it all: a gabled roof reflecting the area's history, noren curtains with a lantern swaying in the doorway, a quaint potted garden, an adjoining coin laundry, an umbrella lock stand to deter umbrella-borrowers, and a vending machine adorned with an illustration of a Geisha. Bright red and Coca-Cola branded though it may be, this is my first encounter with a Geisha in Kagurazaka. The vending machine’s wrap is a standard graphic design seen throughout Tokyo, but I can't help thinking that Atami-yu’s owners chose it deliberately. History has it that Geisha once prepared themselves here before evening performances.
Kagurazaka is one of Tokyo’s few remaining hanamachi, or 'flower towns', a poetic reference to districts inhabited by geisha. It’s also a euphemistic label—historically, hanamachi not only served as hubs for Geisha but also included red-light districts, particularly before the enforcement of a law prohibiting sex work in 1957. The term’s meaning evolved from areas encompassing a mix of Geisha and sex workers to the Geisha-focused enclaves of today. In the 1930s, Kagurazaka held around 600 geisha. However, I’ve read that now only around 20–30 geisha continue to practise in the area, narrowly preserving this cultural heritage. My day in Kagurazaka provided glimpses of a few of the active geisha, which, reflecting on the statistics, feels remarkable. Across Kagurazaka-dōri lies a narrow alleyway known as Geisha-shindō, which used to serve as a discreet route for geisha, allowing them to navigate the area away from the main thoroughfares.
This leads me to a reflection on the nature of visiting hanamachi. Geisha-shindō was designed to offer Geisha a degree of privacy, yet, in tourist-mode, there's a compelling urge to seek them out for our own viewing pleasure. During Kyoto prefecture’s peak tourism year before the pandemic in 2019, with a record-breaking 88 million visitors, including myself, I recall being saddened by the behaviour of camera-wielding men in Gion’s alleyways. If you recall my thoughts on photographing residential areas in an earlier newsletter, you might remember my reference to Susan Sontag, who compared photography to hunting, suggesting that taking a photo is akin to pointing a weapon at the subject. I saw three burly men with telescopic lenses on their cameras chasing down what must have been a young Maiko (apprentice Geisha). The first to spot her signalled the others, and they descended like paparazzi on a celebrity. I felt I was watching hunters stalking a terrified deer.
The Maiko quickly disappeared behind a pair of sliding doors, and I don’t know if the men managed to get a clear shot. In Kyoto, the backstreets now have signs that ban the photography of Geisha and entering private lanes, enforced in crowded areas by tourist wardens. Tokyo, not as famed for its Geisha, doesn't have such strict measures in places like Kagurazaka. Nonetheless, as a visitor, I suggest keeping a cool head—if a Geisha crosses your path, savour the encounter quietly and let her go about her business. You might even enjoy it more this way, freed from the distraction of technology and allowing a fleeting moment to remain unspoiled.
As I keep my excitement at the sight of an illustrated Geisha printed on a vending machine in check, Oguri-dōri starts to veer off. We’ll adjust our route, turning onto a narrow passageway in front of the sento. It's discreet enough to be missed, but this is Atamiyuzaka, a fine twig, to push the tree analogy further. Stone steps follow the natural terrain, guiding us to Kenban Yokochō. Kenban refers to the office managing Geisha schedules and engagements, and Yokochō means alleyway. It is a place crucial to the Geisha community's daily operations. Here, I passed a Geisha entering a building on the corner, with the look of a residence turned office. I’ve read there is a chance to hear the sound of a shamisen practice session in this alleyway, but I wasn’t so fortunate.
Before continuing along the yokochō, which ascends parallel to Kagurazaka-dōri, I briefly walked toward the main road and stopped at Fushimi Hibō Inari Shrine, a microscopic shrine, tucked between buildings. Hibō means fire prevention: small shrines offering protection from fire are common in areas laced with narrow alleys and wooden buildings. During this pause, an elderly gentleman, noting my interest, stopped to share insights into the ritual of Ni-rei Ni-hakushu Ichi-rei, or ‘two bows, two claps, and one bow’, performed in front of shrines. While I'm acquainted with this practice, often participating before taking photographs, a reminder of the correct sequence is always helpful.
Here's how the ritual typically unfolds. After tossing a coin into the collections box:
Bow Twice (Ni-rei): The worshipper starts by bowing deeply twice at the waist. This act of bowing is a sign of respect and humility before the kami (god).
Clap Twice (Ni-hakushu): After the bows, the worshipper claps their hands twice at chest level. The clapping is meant to attract the kami's attention and is followed by a moment of silence, during which the worshipper prays or makes a wish silently. The clapping symbolises the beginning and end of the communication with the kami.
Bow Once Again (Ichi-rei): Finally, the worshipper concludes the ritual with one more deep bow. This last bow signifies gratitude and respect, marking the end of the prayer and the worshippers' departure from the kami's presence.
With my modest contribution to fire protection on the streets of Kagurazaka complete, I continued along the yokochō, which is tranquil during the day. Here, I encountered the first French bistro along the trail. I’m here as much for this as the hanamachi history and atmosphere, so it is a delightful sight: a ground-floor establishment with a terrace, chalkboard, and wine barrel out front. The interior features red leather furnishings, dark wood, subdued lighting, and wine bottles adorning the walls. A Japanese woman of refined appearance is chilling out on the terrace, watching a programme on her phone. I never returned to this bistro due to the plethora of French restaurants in Kagurazaka, as we'll discover later, but I’d like to someday.
Venturing further along the yokochō, I turned around to take in the scene behind me. I’d recently read about the frenetic street photography methods of Daido Moriyama, who contends that the rear view is often more compelling than the one in front of you. This glance back revealed a streetscape occasionally seen in Tokyo's neighbourhoods: a path that divides sharply into two, forming a pointed plot on the corner where an isosceles trapezoid-shaped building stands. Views of the two paths on either side unfold. This particular property is occupied by a British themed pub. Just as I started recording a short video, a Geisha inadvertently entered the frame from behind, completing an urban tableau I couldn’t have planned.
A Geisha at noon,
Past trapezoid pub she steps,
Vent fans whispering.
I felt fortunate—three geishas encountered, if we include Atami-yu’s vending machine. It's my belief that this is the essence of seeing the world on foot; letting meaningful moments occur naturally without forcefully seeking them. I sense that such experiences are more likely to arise in this manner. In Tokyo’s case, push too aggressively, and the city puts up its defences—a shield of crowded tourist attractions and restaurants whose original spirit has been crushed under the weight of TikTok virality. However, flow with the city impartially, and the authentic cultural encounters we all desire will make themselves known.
Soon I arrived at an intersection where a small crowd had gathered. Restaurants were starting to open, and early birds were contemplating lunch, milling around the cluster of eateries, perusing menus. Notably, one restaurant, had a queue forming outside, hinting at its popularity, possibly spurred by television or social media fame. I wasn’t prepared to dine just yet and instead turned towards Kagurazaka-dōri, meandering along another backstreet peppered with restaurants. One facade had an illustration of a sumo wrestler, marking a chanko-nabe restaurant known for its large portions of the soup consumed by sumo wrestlers to bulk up.
Further on, a row of parked cars led to an eye-catching red wooden building with white panels and lattice windows, nestled under elegant eaves. It is the side view of Zenkoku-ji, a temple that occupies a central role in Kagurazaka. Esteemed since the 18th century and dedicated to the deity Bishamonten, known for fulfilling wishes, the temple serves as a refuge for those in search of divine assistance. It features a pair of tigers at its entrance, a nod to the deity's birth year being the tiger. I’m told the temple's ambiance becomes especially lively during the Kagurazaka Matsuri, highlighted by awa-odori dancers taking to the streets for four days of traditional celebration. This would have been one of the sites where kagura music was played as part of the procession up the saka during festivals.
After briefly exploring the temple, I ventured back down Kagurazaka-dōri, but not for long before tapping out of main road life once again for the yokochō alleyways on the north side. Here lies a labyrinth of interconnected alleyways, occasionally joined by even narrower paths. This area encompasses the previously mentioned Geisha-shindō along with Honda Yokochō, likely the biggest yokochō in Kagurazaka, and Hyogo Yokochō, or ‘Arsenal Alley’. The latter's name traces back to a weapons merchant from the Sengoku period (1467-1590) who resided here. The name also feels like a connection to Kagurazaka’s historical significance as a strategic locale, near the outer moat of Edo Castle. Close to the hill's crest, the dwellings of okachigumi (foot guards) once stood. Hills like this, with a southern exposure, were prized residential sites.
The last alleyway, Kakurenbo Yokochō, means 'Hide-and-Seek Alley'. This lane is flanked by establishments with tall wooden or stone walls. Greenery shrouds the buildings’ upper exteriors, and sudare screens made of horizontal slats of bamboo cover windows. Gates occasionally mark a structure’s threshold, but more often the entrance is nothing more than a discreet gap in the wall adorned with a noren curtain. Along with the alley’s sharp turns, which invite peeking around before passing through, these elements create a feeling of secrecy. Andon lanterns, featuring paper or glass over frames illuminated by candles or oil lamps, are placed along the pavement, subtly indicating the presence of ryōtei restaurants.
Ryōtei are upscale Japanese restaurants where you might experience the type of mind-altering dining I mentioned earlier. The cuisine is Japanese, typically presented in the multi-course haute cuisine style known as kaiseki, within private settings of quiet opulence. Ryōtei are significant in preserving and celebrating the Japanese culinary arts and hospitality. Kagurazaka became a prime location for ryōtei due to its cultural scene and the patronage of affluent clientele seeking these dining experiences.
The transformation of Geisha houses into ryōtei is a phenomenon observed in various parts of Japan, including Kagurazaka, reflecting the broader evolution within the hanamachi. As traditional Geisha culture faces decline due to social, economic, and cultural changes, some Geisha houses have adapted their spaces to survive in this new environment. This shift from Geisha houses to ryōtei symbolises a strategic adaptation for continuity. By expanding their offerings to encompass upscale Japanese dining, these establishments not only reach a broader clientele but also preserve their historical essence.
The broader clientele now includes tourists seeking genuine Japanese cultural experiences, yet ryōtei dining remains a nuanced affair. Certainly, establishments with multiple Michelin stars are not venues for impromptu lunch visits during a day's exploration. Reservations are essential and often come with their own set of challenges. This is the reason why, despite being at the heart of Tokyo's ryōtei dining scene, I won't be going inside one. Even the less illustrious ryōtei, where one might manage to walk in without a reservation and enjoy a reasonably priced lunchtime teishoku set meal, demand a lengthier dining commitment than the afternoon’s dwindling light can grant me.
Instead, I made a detour to Patio, a café that blends the love of coffee with musical pleasure. During the day, Patio offers hand-poured coffee, each cup served in artistically decorated ceramics. The menu highlights the Royal Blend coffee, accompanied by a selection of cakes and kissaten classics like the mikkusu sando (mixed sandwich). Mikkusu sando, a nostalgic choice, typically includes a thin omelette, lightly kissed with ketchup for a tangy sweetness, along with ham and cucumber slices, all unified by a spicy mustard mayonnaise. Encased in soft, fluffy shokupan Japanese bread, it's my usual choice for a quick lunch that also takes in a new kissaten. Each place has its own variation on the sando, and here, it's more like a ham and cheese toastie. By night, Patio morphs into a snack bar featuring karaoke, offering a space for guests to relax through song. The café is operated by a sole proprietress who has been in business for years. It has a lived-in feel, with boxes scattered about and service that moves at a leisurely pace, hinting at the slow march of time.
Refreshed by coffee and lunch amongst the locals at Café Patio, I stepped out into the fading daylight. Tokyo's early sunset, a result of its eastern position within its time zone and Japan's non-observance of Daylight Saving Time, marks the day's end sooner than one might expect, irrespective of the season. No matter how early I start walking, I enter a similar pattern where I become too engrossed in exploration to take lunch at a regular hour, so I end up eating mid-afternoon at a kissaten or similar. This leaves the afternoon light feeling short lived and pushes me toward a late dinner. The ticking of time in these moments used to stress me out slightly, but it's a rhythm I’ve accepted now. And besides, it puts me back out onto the streets, rejuvenated just in time for golden hour and twilight.
By this point, I've grown weary of consulting my walking map and decided to let instinct guide me for the remainder of the journey. I meander northeast along a residential street that borders the yokochō alleys. The hanamachi scenery gives way to the more subtle cues of Tokyo neighbourhood life: potted gardens and an eclectic mix of detached houses showcasing varied architectural styles. My path eventually leads to Ōkubo-dori, which stretches all the way to Ōkubo in eastern Shinjuku. However, we’ll cross the street and stroll the undulating residential backstreets of upper Kagurazaka, keeping Kagurazaka-dōri within a parallel proximity. This tranquil segment of my walk, likely near where the okachigumi residences once stood, allows for reflection on the day's experiences, interspersed with the occasional discovery of narrow lanes and houses that resemble ryōtei restaurants. Perhaps some truly are, hidden so well in plain sight that their identities as ryōtei remain a mystery.
I find myself at the impressive torii gates of Akagi Shrine, marking a climactic point towards the end of my day's journey. The shrine was redesigned by Kengo Kuma, a near legendary figure in Japanese architecture. His 2010 renovation introduced a fusion of wood and glass, a notable shift from traditional shrine designs. The deity setup here is slightly complex, but essentially, the shrine venerates Iwatsuzuo no Mikoto, born from a fire god, and Akagihime no Mikoto, known for fulfilling women's wishes. Originating in the Kamakura period (1185–1333), the shrine underwent several relocations before settling in its present site. In the Tokugawa period, it was esteemed as one of the great Taisha shrines, a significant site for worship. It is evening now, and Kengo Kuma’s architectural nuances are shrouded in shadow, but the carefully placed lanterns cast a warm, orange illumination.
Exiting the shrine, I stroll through the residential sakamichi (sloping roads) of Akagi-motomachi, the shrine's neighbourhood, as well as nearby Yairichō and Suidochō. This loop eventually leads me to the top of Kagurazaka-dōri, which transitions into the start of the Waseda-dōri thoroughfare. Here, I see Kagurazaka Metro station, set back from the street, distinguished by its soothing wooden brise-soleil. Earlier, a wine bar named Perregaux between the station and Akagi Shrine had caught my eye. Kagurazaka's French influence has been subtly present throughout the day in bistro facades, delicatessens, snippets of French conversations, and the occasional drift of accordion music from the shopping street’s public address system. The choice of accordion music is a cliché, but demonstrates the community’s embrace of its French influence.
Settling into Perregaux, I order the glass of red wine that's been on my mind since Café Patio. It is an aperitif and an opportunity to sift through the extensive list of local bistros saved to my Tokyo Google Map, and ponder over dinner options. I noticed several Google reviews of Perregaux, mentioning the owner's brusque service, but that wasn’t my experience. He appears to be someone with a distinctive approach—his establishment not only offers wine but also trades in antique watches, and a flatscreen displaying Flightradar24, tracking live flight paths, adorns the bar. I’m into this backdrop; for me, it elicits a sense of global connectivity—a comforting reminder of the ceaseless pulse of international travel from our outpost atop Kagurazaka Hill. The owner allows smoking in his bar, prompting my choice of the terrace with its view of the shrine's torii gate. At one point, he joins me for a conversation in English.
I value secluded bar and café conversations in Japan, mainly as a means to connect with a local and gain insight into the area from their perspective. Yet, there's also a personal motive: to use my Japanese, which tends to rust a little at home in London. However, I like interaction with proprietors keen on foreign languages too, affording them the opportunity to showcase their linguistic skills, knowing the pleasure it brings me to do the same. His English is proficient, so assuming you don't encounter him during one of his reportedly less cheerful moments, he would be a good person to talk to, especially for those who might be less confident or able in Japanese but still desire such conversations.
The owner tells me that his French is better than his English, which makes sense, given his choice of locale. Kagurazaka's embrace of old-world French culture took root in the post-war period, marked by the nearby founding of the French educational institution, Le Lycée Français International de Tokyo. The school introduced a French influence into the area, ushering in a cultural exchange that is now woven into the fabric of the district. Architect Sou Fujimoto designed the new school building in 2021 around the concept of a "French village". Over the years, a variety of French cafés, restaurants, and boutiques flourished in Kagurazaka, enhancing its streetscape. This cultural blend is eloquently described by Tatiana Milovanovic-Mladenovic, a former resident of Kagurazaka, in her article for Tokyo Weekender.
Kagurazaka makes you feel as if you’re in both Kyoto and in France. East and West in the same packed room. And if you are walking up or down the main street when French chansons are coming out of public speakers, it’s like you’re in the streets of Montmartre surrounded by Japanese tourists. There’s this strange feeling that you’re really far away from France yet somehow also in France.
Milovanovic-Mladenovic also points out that the aforementioned Kengo Kuma resides here. Researching last week’s newsletter, I happened to read a conversation involving Kuma, where he mentions that without the French influence, Kagurazaka might have been just another nostalgic neighbourhood, akin to many others across Tokyo with quaint streets and shops. However, he says, the French community's presence energises the local culture, lending the area an entirely new dimension. Kuma himself has a European office in Paris' 10th Arrondissement, a choice inspired by its resemblance to his first Tokyo office, which was located near—where else but—Kagurazaka. His story is one instance of the mutual respect and influence between Japanese and French creativity, a relationship I, as an Englishman, can only look upon with admiration. In the aftermath of war and disaster, Japan drew inspiration from Britain and Germany for its systems and infrastructure. However, it was Paris' urban design that Japanese city planners held in high regard. Despite their admiration, though, visions of Haussmann’s boulevards never quite materialised in the Japanese capital. For my part, one of London’s best aspects is the Eurostar connection to Paris. Excluding Tokyo for obvious geographical reasons, there's no other city I'd rather have directly accessible by train.
I prepared for a brief walk back down Kagurazaka-dōri toward my chosen bistro, where the neon lights of the zakkyo buildings were now in full illumination. Kagurazaka managed to survive the Great Kanto earthquake of 1923 relatively unscathed, thus preserving many of its Edo structures and streets. This resilience made it a refuge for businesses relocating from the heavily damaged Ginza area, earning it the affectionate nickname Ginza Yamate, or ‘Uptown Ginza’. It's yet another aspect of Kagurazaka’s history that contributes to its multi-faceted atmosphere of refinement. However, the air raids of World War II later razed much of the district to the ground. Despite this, the post-war period witnessed a swift revival of the hanamachi, thus preserving its cultural essence and continuing the legacy of traditional entertainment. Locals prided themselves on their achievement.
I draw again from my highly recommended read on Tokyo's urbanism, Emergent Tokyo: Designing the Spontaneous City by Jorge Almazán + Studiolab. The book's chapter on zakkyo buildings tells a community story, illustrating how deregulation of building heights from the 1980s threatened Kagurazaka's historical fabric. By banding together, the community managed to enact district plans in 2007 and 2011, reasserting regulations that restrict building heights and protect the local alleyways, preventing the area from succumbing to the sterile uniformity of modern high-rises. This active stewardship by Kagurazaka's residents has not only preserved the district's distinctiveness but also highlighted the importance of community in urban planning.
The outcome of the community's efforts in Kagurazaka has cultivated a streetscape where zakkyo buildings forge a dynamic 'active edge' along Kagurazaka-dori. This interface connects the semi-private spaces of these establishments with the public realm. Such initiatives have safeguarded the district's historical scale and the streetscape's rhythm, which dates back to the Edo period. Fortified by two glasses of rouge, a sense of uplift washed over me as I descended the slope, pondering this encouraging tale of community resilience. It is not an impossible future for Tokyo: a balanced mix of heritage, modern development and a delicately poised multicultural populace.
Shortly, I arrived at my ultimate destination, my sought-after bistro, Le Clos Montmartre. I had narrowed the decision down to four restaurants, each with similar levels of acclaim and appeal. The final choice was guided by instinct; I had passed by each contender throughout the day, and this one had resonated the most, on some level. Perhaps, subconsciously, the inclusion of "Montmartre" in its name evoked some of the finest beef bourguignon I've had, located unexpectedly close to the tourist heave behind Sacré-Cœur, where the presence of an exceptional restaurant might seem unlikely.
With no advance booking, I was fortunate to find an empty seat at Le Clos Montmartre, convincing me that my enactment of Ni-rei Ni-hakushu Ichi-rei before Bishamonten had worked, and the deity of good fortune was bidding me wine and rich bistro fare. Situated just off Kagurazaka-dōri, this established French restaurant cultivates a local clientele. It strives to offer an unadorned French dining experience while ensuring dishes are not too heavily calibrated to conceptions of Japanese taste. The bistro's decor complements the ambiance, and the menu, presented on a chalkboard, led me to choose Sardine et Champignons Duxelle en Croute—sardines and duxelle mushrooms in a light pastry crust—and Joue de Boeuf Braisee, braised beef cheek. The staff were courteous, and the meal rivalled that of Parisian neighbourhood bistros. I recommend it. And despite the restaurant's intention to avoid a heavy Japanese influence, this wasn't entirely the case, evidenced by the restrained plating and on-target flavours. I dig this touch though—it's the kind of detail I would look forward to experiencing in Tokyo.
Late night, wine-enabled conversations filled the room, and my Solitary Gourmet moment neared its end. A sip of dessert wine, and then it was time to go. I had accessed a blissful, taste-driven state of euphoria without the intervention of a ryōtei restaurant or any number of Michelin stars. With the alcohol seemingly having loaned my legs an extra couple of kilometres' walking stamina, I rolled down into the valley toward Ichigaya Station to catch the Chuo Line home.
In the past two weeks of newsletter writing, I've chosen topics assuming they would become brief, simple pieces that wouldn’t take too long to compose amidst a tiring and turbulent period. However, in those cases, word counts expanded as memories surfaced and research deepened. This is only my second neighbourhood walk-shaped newsletter, but I’m already gaining a sense of the hours I’ll need to dedicate to this type of newsletter by examining the volume of photos, videos, notes, and map pins from the area on my phone. The gigabytes were extensive for Kagurazaka, indicating how much I enjoyed the area. I’ve reserved it for a week like this, when I was certain I could allocate the necessary time for focus. Yet, these 5000 or so words leave many stones unturned. And those stones are merely what is gathered around the tree’s trunk, not to mention the thousands of leaves on the branches that comprise this splendid Tokyo locale.
I imagine Tokyo Sanpo Zukan’s conceptual framework, likening the area to a tree, to be a keyaki, a species of tree you might recall from last week’s newsletter. The trees that line Kagurazaka-dōri itself are keyakis. Springtime approaches, and many travel plans are doubtlessly coming to fruition. So, if today’s walk has resonated with you—admire the bright green spring foliage of a keyaki, do your utmost to keep your cool around a Geisha, sip a glass of Saint-Émilion, and consider making room for Kagurazaka in your itinerary.
Until we meet on the streets of le hanamachi Parisienne,
AJ
Links
This week's book is Tokyo Sanpo Zukan 東京散歩図鑑, which can only be easily purchased in Japan at a bookstore like Tsutaya, where I bought my copy. It is written in Japanese, although the visuals—illustrations and maps—are extensive. Amazon Japan delivers it internationally for those willing to endure the shipping fees, and I found a cool looking online bookshop called Foxenrose stocking it, for those in the US. So, the links list is more of a suggestions column this week. I'm also testing whether including no links helps Gmail understand that this isn't a promotional email. Should this email land in your Promotions tab, you can help me and other readers by moving it to another tab of your choosing, signalling to the system that this email has nothing to sell other than the love of Japan, walking, coffee, and the arts.