Back alleys are still bustling with hot pot parties

Once it passes 9 p.m., the lanterns at the food stalls light up again tonight.

Standing at the hot pot is the third-generation owner’s mother. Though petite, her movements are decisive. She flips the skewers, glances at the pot, checks on the customers, and looks back at the pot. This sequence is ingrained in her body like a rhythm honed over many years.

The U-shaped counter is full with about eight people. The closeness—where shoulders naturally brush against one another—is quintessentially street-stall. Even if a stranger’s elbow brushes against you, for some reason it doesn’t bother you. Perhaps it’s because everyone is enveloped in the same steam.

The night is packed into that round pot

A large round pot sits in the center.

Daikon radish, eggs, thick fried tofu. Beef tendon, chikuwa fish cakes. And on top of that, skewers of all kinds—from negima and grilled plum to even unusual items like whale meat balls—are haphazardly crammed inside.

It’s not orderly, yet it feels cozy. It feels as though each item knows exactly where it belongs.

The negima is eaten with salt. Even though it’s soaked in broth, you finish it off with a pinch of salt. That extra step is quite chic.

Whale “koro” is something you don’t see very often these days. It’s made from the subcutaneous fat, and when you chew it, it has a unique sweetness. It’s a flavor that might best be described as “nostalgic.”

Skewers are 150 yen each. The “teppō-kushi” is 300 yen.
Rather than choosing based on price, it feels like reaching out for whatever strikes my fancy in the moment.

In between bites of oden, I’ll nibble on some dote-ni or finish off with some kasu udon. It’s nothing flashy, but they’ve got everything you need to properly wrap up the evening.

A Relaxing Detour: Dashi-wari

A popular item here is the oden dashi-wari. They dip a small bottle of sake into the pot to warm it, then dilute it with oden broth. That’s all there is to it. But it’s strangely comforting. It’s neither sake nor soup—it’s somewhere in between. When you drink it on a cold night, it warms you right to the core.

When someone orders it, you can’t help but want to order one yourself.

“Want to have one more?” Maybe it’s because of this drink that such conversations arise so naturally.

Sharing the same rising steam with a stranger

Here, there’s not much distinction between regulars and first-timers. You can see what the person next to you ordered, so you might order the same thing or ask them about it. Before you know it, a little conversation has started.

It makes me think, “This is what a food stall is all about.” It feels like a place where everyone belongs, yet belongs to no one.

Sharing the same pot, now and in the future

The pot and the place haven’t changed much. But the people who run the shop are gradually passing the baton. They say that once the third-generation owner—the mother—retires, her son and his wife plan to take over.

The same pot, the same broth. But I’m sure things will change little by little. And I feel like that’s just fine. That’s probably why this place has lasted so long.

Beyond the rising steam, someone is picking out skewers again today—making an ordinary night just that, without trying to make it special.