Any journey on the Shinkansen – Japan’s bullet train – is the perfect opportunity to enjoy an ekiben, the iconic bento filled with an assortment of delicacies tucked into a container and eaten in bite-size pieces. The term comes from the Japanese words for train (eki) combined with ben for bento (or “lunchbox”). These little jewel boxes are sold at concessions in train stations across the country and occasionally via pushcarts on trains. Different regions of Japan offer up varieties of local ingredients or specialties, making the ekiben a cornucopia of Japanese cuisine. Before airplanes became inexpensive and frequent in Japan, rail travel was the only mass transportation for long distances.

It’s a Thursday morning at Katsuo Shokudo, a basement breakfast diner in the backstreets of Shibuya decorated with fish-themed paraphernalia. Today is slow and relaxed. Dressed in shades of indigo, most notably a T-shirt proclaiming “KATSUO 100%,” proprietor Mai Nagamatsu is a one-woman show in charge of the entire operation today, washing and draining rice, frying fish, taking orders, sharpening her knives, now and then breaking out with a stream of lively banter in her bright, ringing voice. The name of her restaurant translates to “Skipjack Tuna Cafeteria,” and as the name suggests, it’s all about the eponymous fish. It specializes in all things katsuobushi, or skipjack tuna flakes – the smoky, piscine backbone of Japanese cuisine.

Japan is well known for its variety of national dishes, as well as local specialties claimed by individual regions and cities. Tokyo, which boasts more Michelin stars than any city in the world, is a natural nexus for these disparate eats, as well as more international fare. It may come as a surprise, then, that Tokyo itself only really has one true homegrown specialty: monjayaki. The baseline ingredients for monjayaki, often referred to simply as monja, are nothing more than wheat flour and dashi, that ubiquitous Japanese broth made from kombu (kelp) and shavings of katsuobushi, dried, fermented and smoked skipjack tuna. Cabbage is also common enough to be considered a third basic ingredient.

Much has been written about the yamabushi of the Dewa Sanzan mountains in Yamagata Prefecture, about two and a half hours north of Tokyo via bullet train. The yamabushi are followers of Shugendo, an ascetic mountain religion best thought of as an amalgamation of Shinto, Buddhism, Taoism, and mountain worship. Shrouded in secrecy and more than a little mystery, their ascetic practices might seem more like superhuman feats to the layperson: yamabushi famously commit to often physically grueling, spiritual practices of self-denial, like circumambulating mountains on straw sandals year-round, or meditating for hours under freezing waterfalls. Food might not seem of great importance while in pursuit of enlightenment, but it turns out that what you eat in your spiritual practice is just as important as your other activities.

In 2015, a ramen store in Tokyo made waves by becoming the first ever to receive a Michelin star. Tucked down a street in a slightly shabby area near Sugamo Station to Tokyo’s north, the store, Tsuta, was flooded with hordes of noodle worshippers and subsequently issued a timed-entry ticketing system to manage the crowds (reportedly to spare the clientele of the love hotel across the street from embarrassment). Locals maintain, however, that the best ramen in the area is not found at Tsuta, which has since moved to a more upmarket location, but rather at Menya Imamura, housed one street over from the original Tsuta store.

Amanda Tong’s hands are grey with liquid porcelain as she slowly shapes a small pitcher on her potter’s wheel. Marbled clay rises and flattens under her strong hands, larger than you’d expect from her slight stature. Behind her, Jun Matsumura scrapes tendrils of clay off a partially-dried vessel, sharpening its elegant curves. Cantonese pop music plays from speakers on the shelves. Both of them are quiet, focused entirely on their work. On a sunny spring afternoon, ceramicists Amanda and Jun agreed to let us watch them work at their studio in rural Saitama, about an hour outside of central Tokyo. We’re here to chat about their ceramics practice; specifically, what goes into making utensils and vessels for the Japanese tearoom.*

Daiji Takada, owner of Chabuzen, peeks out over the counter from the kitchen, which has about a meter-long strip of standing space for one at most. The interior of this narrow restaurant on the very fringes of the hip neighborhood of Shimokitazawa in western Tokyo isn’t much more spacious. Two low tables on tatami provide enough room for around six to squeeze in, and there are two stools at the counter – although occupying those spaces would almost certainly prevent anyone from getting out the door. With the surety of someone well-used to playing human Tetris, Takada deftly steps out and expertly delivers a plate of gyoza onto the table. He has just made these lovingly by hand and cooked them in a small, plug-in fryer.

It’s a slow Tuesday lunch at Mochiku, a tiny 8-seater, counter-only tempura restaurant somewhere up a nondescript staircase in Ginza. This might sound like a thousand other places in Tokyo, but not all of those other places serve great tempura. I’ve just demolished a glorious tendon: a dozen pieces of hot, crisp, sauce-soused tempura including spring vegetables, but also prawn, whiting, shiso-wrapped tuna, and a whole conger eel for good measure, all served over a bed of rice. Lunch hours are officially over. I’m hanging around to chat to Yuto Nishizawa, who is listening patiently as the customer next to me holds forth on, well, his life, for about twenty minutes.

Author Zach Mangan, founder of Kettl, a tea and teaware company based in New York City and Fukuoka, Japan, shares the stories of tea producers and craft of tea-making in his new book, Stories of Japanese Tea: The Regions, the Growers, and the Craft (Princeton Architectural Press, 2022). Originally a jazz drummer, Mangan first experienced fresh Japanese tea in Paris while on tour with his band in the mid-2000s. Following a two-year stint at Ito En, one of Japan’s largest tea distributors, he slowly built relationships with Japanese tea growers over several years, and began supplying tea to some of the best chefs in New York City. Kettl was eventually launched in 2015, and now has two locations in NYC.

Popularly known as “Rice Girl” for her rice subscription service serving up micro-seasonal blends of rice varieties, Momoko Nakamura has had an eclectic career: she’s been a former television producer of food shows like Iron Chef America, start-up founder, director of food events, restaurant consultant, and now, advocate for healthy living and author of culinary guide Plant-Based Tokyo. Beautifully photographed by Waki Hamatsu and published in 2019, this bilingual book showcases 45 dining establishments in the Tokyo and Shonan areas that focus on plant-based cuisine and sustainable food system practices. But it’s much more than a restaurant directory: it’s a series of profiles or mini-biographies of plant-based chefs around the city.

For a city of its size and density, Tokyo is disproportionately lacking in great sandwiches. Let us be clear: We’re not talking about ethereal Japanese-style sando, with their soft white bread and fillings like omelet, strawberries and cream or even ridiculously expensive wagyu fillets (although those are a perfectly valid and wonderful form of sandwich). We’re thinking of hearty sandwiches that power you through endless Zoom meetings: baguettes, toasties, wraps, banh mi. Fortunately, there’s the Chipper’s pop-up at BathHaus, where Kohsuke “Chan” Yamaoka turns out simple, well-made sandwiches every Tuesday evening.

It’s not every day you see someone’s face peeking out of the belly of a bright blue skipjack bonito (katsuo). You certainly don’t expect them to wear fish-shaped headgear while wrapping dozens of sushi rolls all morning. But this was how Mai Nagamatsu, katsuobushi evangelist and proprietor of breakfast diner Katsuo Shokudo, greeted us on February 3: her head looking like a fish at sea. It was Setsubun, the first day of spring according to the old Japanese lunar calendar, itself based on the traditional Chinese calendar that divides a year into 24 solar terms. (These days, the lunar calendar is more a reminder of cultural practices and traditional markers of seasonal changes than a practical way to keep time.)

It’s noon on the first day of 2022 in Tokyo’s historic Asakusa neighborhood and we find ourselves in Hinatomaru, a casual standing sushi bar. There are few better places to eavesdrop on conversations than in small bars like this one. Outside, thousands of people bundled in winter coats and kimonos throng the main approach to Sensoji, Tokyo’s oldest Buddhist temple. Shepherded by police into a queue spilling out onto the road in front of Kaminarimon Gate, which has been closed off to cars today, they’re here for hatsumōde, the first shrine or temple visit of the new year. We decided to forgo the crowded shrine for our own venerable tradition of hatsuzushi: the first sushi of the year.

We woke one Sunday craving omuraisu, our favorite Japanese comfort food. Omuraisu, sometimes rendered as omurice, is an umami bomb: a soft egg omelet arranged over rice studded with a protein such as chicken or pork and a flourish of ketchup-laced demi-glace sauce over the top. So we headed to Edoya, a yoshoku outpost in central Tokyo that opened over 60 years ago and became popular thanks to a particularly affable chef. Although it means “Western food,” yoshoku is a decidedly Japanese creation, one inspired by a 19th-century notion of pan-European cuisine. Developed with the support of the Meiji Emperor around 1900, this style of cooking places a great emphasis on meats, often paired with rich demi-glace sauces, which many believed would help Japanese people become larger in build.

Sweet, fluffy and incredibly habit forming, yakiimo (roasted sweet potatoes) are an autumnal treat loved throughout Japan. But in a small corner of Setagaya, Tokyo’s largest ward, a dedicated shop bakes them year-round. Kept busy by a steady stream of visitors, all clutching tell-tale paper bags, Fuji has a national take on a traditional snack. The slow-baked yakiimo are often sold from slow-moving mini trucks equipped with onboard wood-burning ovens. As the trucks roll by, they fill the air with both a comforting smell and familiar song. Roasted on a bed of stones, the potatoes are commonly known as ishiyaki imo and once saved Japan from famine when rice crops failed in the 18th century. Served without butter or salt, it may seem a little simple to the untrained eye, but cooked right, the flavor and texture render any additions entirely obsolete.