Embraced by the Slavic Wind — Ichikawa Mama, Body Heat Dwelling in the In-Between —

The destination is decided by a small ritual left to chance.
We always arrive at a place where layers of time faintly touch—a land like an 'in-between' space for deciding which way to go.

Sometimes, only the 'boundaries' remain in a town.
Even after people leave and memories fade, that spot alone remains strangely warm, continuing to float above the layers of time.

The 'Yuyu Road Shopping Street,' which stretches straight from the south exit of Ichikawa Station, is one such place.

A bakery wafting the scent of wheat, an elementary school with yellow hats, a traditional barbershop, a boutique-like hair salon.
On that street where the breath of daily life gently ebbs and flows, a door to a foreign land suddenly appears.

On a blue sign reminiscent of honor and purity, yellow letters dance with a madness like the leap of a Trepak—Roshia-tei.
Roshia-tei was originally in Jimbocho.
In a town where the dust of books and the aroma of coffee mingle, students, editors, and nameless writers are said to have entrusted long hours to its chairs.

What existed there was not a flashy exoticism, but the taste of a quiet life.

The piroshki is round, hot, and sits with a solid weight in the palm of one's hand.
Inside, it is packed with ground meat, a coarse and realistic weight that allows no room for the daydreams often associated with foreign cuisine.

When you add the Russian tea jam, the sweetness softens the wild contours, and the flavor drifts just a little bit away from the time of reality.
Like a memory delivered from a distant snowy field.

The other star is the white beef stroganoff.
A dish often served in a dark brown color, this shop presents it in a soft form that makes the most of the whiteness of milk, and it has been spoken of as a pioneer in Japan.

Its color is not that of snow, but closer to human body heat.
The strong saltiness and the deep umami of the meat are quietly enveloped by the sweetness of the milk, leaving behind a hint of a home dining table.

This dish was born from the wisdom of obtaining nourishment in a short time in a land of harsh winters.
Rather than luxury, it possesses a strength and kindness meant to help people survive.

From a town of books to a town where layers of time are visible.
The shop has moved, but its role remains unchanged.
To be a place for regaining one's body heat when one is a little tired and burdened by the weight of words and thoughts.

Passing through the shopping street and crossing the station, the road begins to rise gently.
Spreading out ahead is the land of Tekona of Mama.

A maiden so beautiful that she sparked conflict and eventually sank herself into the water.
The poets of the Manyoshu repeatedly called this name and scooped up her story time and again.

From the low fields to the high plateau.
From daily life to the depths of time.

This topography looks like the very shape of that story.
This place has long been a boundary, the edge between the lowlands of the Edo River and the Shimosa Plateau.
The road to the eastern provinces passed through here, travelers heading to Narita for pilgrimage crossed the ferry, and everyone caught their breath here for a moment.

Mama is said to be an old name referring to the 'ma' (interval) formed at the edge of the plateau, the space between the lowlands and the high ground.
Not a place to fall, but an edge where one decides where to go next.

As you climb the slope, old Western-style houses appear here and there.
Since the Meiji era, this plateau has been favored as a villa district close to Tokyo, where business people and intellectuals built Western-style houses next to Japanese-style ones.
Memories of the modern age are layered upon the strata of ancient poems, and current life is quietly accumulating on top of that.

The weight of the piroshki and the kindness of the white stroganoff are similar to the layers of time piled up in this town.
If you hold them, they are indeed heavy. But they are warm.

After finishing the meal, a little lightness returns to the soles of my feet.
Stepping on the layers of time, I head toward the slope.

With the lingering echoes of old poems held in my heart,
Like a traveler crossing into the next era.

[February 26, 2026 Ichikawa - Ichikawa Mama]