A nine-seat ramen counter for the small hours.
There is no sign on the street. The alley is unmarked, the door is the wrong colour, and the noren only goes out at eleven. If you are looking for us in the daytime, you will not find us. That is, in part, the point.
This is the story of nine seats, one bowl, and the hours after midnight.
A boat builder's son with no kitchen training and forty thousand yen. He chooses the alley because the rent is half.
Seven years of small adjustments. Then nothing changes for the next thirty.
Twelve years old. Saturdays only. He learns to fold gyoza before he learns to drive.
Hiroshi steps back. Kenji steps in. The recipe does not move a millimetre.
Same broth. Same lamp. Same nine seats. Slightly faster wifi.
Twice a month, we close the counter early and take the kitchen on the road. Late-night film wraps, gallery openings, wedding after-parties, end-of-shoot dinners. Nine seats becomes thirty. The bowl stays the same.
We bring the lamp. We bring the radio. We bring four people, two burners, and as much broth as you have time for.
We do not take reservations more than three nights ahead. Tokyo does not plan that far. Catering inquiries, two weeks please.