North Shinjuku has a neighbourhood atmosphere that belies the reputation of the broader Shinjuku district. At the centre of its second chōme block, a narrow lane winds between low-rise residential buildings and small shops—a space that is neither fully a shōtengai shopping arcade nor entirely a residential street.

Along this lane stands an unassuming three-storey apartment building from the late 20th century. Its brown brick-tile veneer, rectangular windows, and sparse decorative elements offer little hint of anything remarkable within. Bicycles and motorbikes line the curb, casually leaning against metal barriers that border the pavement.

On the ground floor, the storefront entrance is partly shielded by a translucent brown awning. A single yellow fude-moji (筆文字 ), or brush-script kanji, adorns each of the awning's three central sections, spelling out the establishment's name. Below, frosted windows obscure a brightly lit interior that gently spills fluorescent light onto the street in the night. The diffused glow from within cultivates an understated allure.

It is the modest facade of a shop named Chikuyoken (竹葉軒), to which I'd navigated en route from West Shinjuku to Ōkubo, where I stayed for a few nights on one trip. For those unfamiliar with its particular aesthetic, there is little in passing to suggest that it is a neighbourhood Chinese restaurant. The typical flourishes and mythological imagery that mark Chinese restaurants worldwide are nowhere to be found.

In Chikuyoken's window, faded plastic food replicas display menu items with prices that seem frozen in the Shōwa Era (1926–1989). Few dishes are priced above ¥700-800. Inside, a no-nonsense proprietress greets you and seats you at a table in a modest, canteen-like room. You settle onto a sturdy wooden chair with a practical red cushion, its vinyl-like surface slightly faded from years of use. At the back, the chef—her husband and co-proprietor—works briskly, preparing dish after dish with skilled, steady wok techniques.

Outside of Japan's usual culinary staples, there are several meals I make a point to enjoy at least once on every trip. The offerings of a neighbourhood Chinese restaurant rank high on that list. I tend to reach for the comforting richness of mapo tofu (mápó dòufu, 麻婆豆腐). Transformed into mābō dōfu in Japanese, the dish takes on a gentler, more forgiving flavour, perfectly matched by the soft, rounded texture of Japanese rice.