Memories Left in a Matchbox 10.

Kayabacho Chojuan

It was located in Nihonbashi Kayabacho, adjacent to Kabutocho, the center of Japan's financial district.
Although it was surrounded by rows of securities company buildings, it still retained the atmosphere of the downtown area, with a lingering scent of Edo-period charm.
Occupying a corner of that Kayabacho intersection was this long-established soba restaurant, Chojuan.
Its downtown-style appearance was a two-story wooden and mortar house covered in green ivy, with two sliding lattice glass doors at the entrance. Once inside, there were about ten four-person tables in the front, and a raised seating area with four tables in the back.
Even during off-peak hours, it was never empty, and even when it wasn't at its busiest, sharing tables was the norm; it was even possible for a group of four to be seated at four separate tables.
In the kitchen, visible through the serving window, elderly cooks who looked like true craftsmen were busy working amidst the steam.
The menu included items rarely seen in other shops anymore, such as "kamaage udon" and "sobagaki" (buckwheat dumplings).
Long before the sun began to set, seeing someone squinting as they dipped sobagaki into soy sauce to eat, or ordering two servings of mori soba and calmly sipping hot sake, was a scene unique to this place.
Once past the evening hour, true to the neighborhood of salarymen, the place would be filled with people loosening their ties and chatting.
Dishes like itawasa (fish cake), grilled deep-fried tofu, rolled omelets, and yakitori grilled without skewers—essentially any topping used for soba—were served as snacks for alcohol.
A framed ukiyo-e print hung on a pillar in the middle of the raised seating area.
Perhaps it was a scene from a Kabuki play; in the background of a close-up of a hero with kumadori makeup boldly delivering a line, a large lantern labeled "Ni-hachi Soba" was depicted.
"So, the soba of the Edo people really was ni-hachi after all."
With that bit of half-baked knowledge, I had completely misunderstood the meaning.
However, if I may offer a pathetic excuse, the catchphrase of the soba connoisseurs who held sway at the time was, "Soba should be one hundred percent buckwheat, juwari soba. Ni-hachi soba with binders isn't real soba," and I heard that often.
Some shops even advertised "Juwari Soba" and "Ni-hachi Soba" on their menus.
It was quite some time later that I encountered books related to the "history of soba" and realized my great misunderstanding.
The "ni-hachi" of the era when the ukiyo-e was drawn and the "ni-hachi" of today had completely different meanings.
This shop had two daughters.
I remember when I first saw them, they were both middle school students who looked great in their sailor-style uniforms.
For a while after that, I don't recall seeing them, and I'm not sure how much time had passed, but when I noticed, the younger sister was visiting home with a child in her arms.
The older sister continued to help out at the shop after that, and she was a familiar face to us, who were among the regulars.
Among the veteran craftsmen and the formidable part-time mothers, she was always smiling, seemingly carefree (though I don't know if she really was).
There were those who would offer unsolicited advice, asking, "When will she get married?" but eventually, we heard that she had "settled down as the proprietress of a long-established shop somewhere."
Thinking about it, I really did go there often, and I continued to do so until I left Nihonbashi-Shinkawa due to a company relocation.
It must have been just before the relocation, during the end of the bubble era, when the old-fashioned shop was demolished and transformed into an eight-story office building.
The shop moved into the basement floor and had taken on the appearance of a completely modern, high-end Japanese-style restaurant.