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30/07/2026

The pattern is decided while the cloth is still white. has been milling their own dye in Nihonbashi since 1890, and a jar of it from about a century ago still sits on the shelf at somenova. Would you leave it tied for twenty minutes, or sneak a peek?
PR
tokyo

17/07/2026

There's a question a lot of travelers quietly carry into every restaurant in Japan: "can I actually eat this?"

In Asakusa — the old heart of Tokyo — there's a yakiniku place where the answer is finally yes. Every cut is halal wagyu, real Japanese beef you grill at your own table, and the halal certification is right there on the wall. Nothing is off-limits.

And there's something most restaurants don't have. Just off the dining floor, a quiet room to pray. You can wash, pray, then come back to the grill. Faith and dinner, under one roof.

The owner could stay home. He doesn't — he still works the floor himself. People ask him why, and his answer is simple: here, he gets to meet people from every country. Different cultures, different languages, all at one table. That, he says, is the whole point of the place.

So if you have a friend who has to check every menu before they eat — the one who always asks "is this okay for me?" — don't just save this. Send it to them.

Ninja Yakiniku, Asakusa. 🥩

PR

13/07/2026

I didn’t know noodles could have a holiday.

In Japan, July 7 is Tanabata, the star festival — and it’s also, officially, Somen Day (the noodle makers named it in 1982). These thin white noodles have been the food of this day for more than a thousand years.

It goes back to a twisted wheat treat called sakubei. The story is that Heian-era court nobles ate it on the 7th to keep illness away for the year, and over the centuries sakubei became somen.

There’s a prettier reason too. People liken the pale strands to the Milky Way that Orihime and Hikoboshi cross once a year — and to the thread the Weaver princess spins. So the noodles came to stand for getting better at a craft.

At Sankouin, the old Tokyo temple where I filmed this, that meaning goes one step further. Here, Tanabata isn’t a day to wish you’ll improve — it’s a day to look back and quietly “report” what you actually got better at this year. They even cut their own bamboo to build the whole slide, the cups and the chopsticks by hand.

And the bamboo is no accident. Split in half it becomes a natural noodle chute — and it’s the very plant we tie our wishes to at Tanabata, believed to grow straight up and carry them to the stars.

Not “please let me improve.” More like “here’s how far I came.”

So — a year from tonight, what do you want to be able to report?

Send this to someone who worked hard this year. 🎋

11/07/2026

I asked how to keep it looking new. He gently told me that’s the wrong question.

This is a silver cup from Gindendo, a Tokyo silver workshop in the old sh*tamachi of Iriya. The man making it is the twelfth generation of his family, he told me — and the way he talks about it changed how I think about “traditional craft.”

Most things, he said, are best the day you buy them, then you use them up and replace them. This silver is the opposite. It tarnishes, but you wear it and the tarnish wears off, and slowly it becomes yours. You don’t consume it. You grow it, like an antique, and hand it down.

That, in his words, is what a traditional craft really is: not something you use up, but proof you were here — made to be used long after you’re gone. So he weighs every hammer strike, picturing not just the person who buys it, but their children, and theirs.

He said one more thing that stuck: to keep a tradition alive, you can’t only guard it. You have to go on the offensive — keep the craft the same, change how you tell it.

A quiet cup of silver — twelve generations of hands behind it, he told me, and generations ahead.

Would you still buy something made to be handed down?

11/07/2026

This is the making. The behind-the-scenes of one meal at Sankouin in Koganei, Tokyo.

Here’s what I learned. Sankouin is a nunnery, a women’s temple, over 660 years old. The calligraphy inside was all written by a woman’s hand.

The food was made for court-noble women who entered the temple to become nuns. Powerful families gave one daughter to serve the Buddha for life, in a world that stayed closed. No parishioners, kept going by patronage alone.

People call it princess cuisine, but that’s a misunderstanding. The princesses never cooked it. Nameless nuns and court ladies cooked it for them.

It’s the only kitchen in Japan still cooking this court-nunnery style. No graves, no funerals, no tourism. The meal is what keeps it here. Most days the abbess plates the food herself, and that’s her hands in the clip.

11/07/2026

You can make real ramen from scratch — and take the recipe home.

Four full hours, hands-on, start to finish: you crack the bones for the broth, knead and cut the noodles by hand, and fold and fry the gyoza one by one — a whole bowl of ramen and a plate of gyoza, all made by you.

And it doesn't end when class does. You leave with the full recipe, written out step by step, so you can make real ramen and gyoza again at home — anywhere in the world.

A four-hour lesson in Meguro you actually get to take home with you.

Save this for your Japan trip, and tag someone you'd bring.

Lessons & bookings: · babaramen.com

PR

07/07/2026

Today, on Tanabata, two stars are said to be allowed to meet.

You can even find them: Vega, the bright weaver, and Altair, the cowherd, sitting on opposite banks of the Milky Way — what the old stories call the river of heaven, Amanogawa. For most of the year they stay apart. On the seventh night of the seventh month, the legend goes, they're given one crossing. One meeting. Then the river closes again for another whole year.

Japan didn't invent this longing — the legend travelled here long ago from China and quietly wove itself into a much older local custom, in which a maiden wove sacred cloth for the gods. That braiding of two traditions is part of why it feels so tender. It was never really a festival about winning love. It's about waiting for it.

And there's a small heartbreak folded into the weather. If it rains on the seventh, the story says the two can't meet — and people have long called that rain their tears, shed for the year they'll spend apart.

So we help however we can. People write wishes on thin strips of coloured paper called tanzaku and tie them to bamboo — a plant long treated as sacred, growing tall and straight toward the very sky we're hoping stays clear. Little paper hopes, swaying, asking the clouds to hold off for just one night.

If you had a single crossing a year — one night to reach the one person on the far bank — who would be standing on the other side waiting for you?

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