There’s no city in the world that will make you feel small like Tokyo does. The city is inconceivably massive, and that could be why the Japanese love their tiny, tiny establishments, snug places that always involve drinking, usually involve some eating, and that make Tokyo so interesting. I have spent several nights haunting a small alleyway sometimes called Omoide Yokocho, meaning “Memory Lane”, but more commonly called Shonben Yokocho, “Piss Alley”. It’s crammed full of tiny, tiny eateries, all off tiny, tiny passageways.
It’s called Piss Alley because, as the story goes, there was no public toilet in the old days and these places are far, far too small to have their own facilities, so just step out into the alley to do your business. The “piss” part of Piss Alley is gone; there’s a very public bathroom, marked with a sign, down a very narrow side line, leading to three urinals almost in the open, and a few squat toilet booths for the females, who must walk by the pissing males to use them.
It’s a tiny area in the Shinjuku neighborhood of Tokyo, easy to miss if you’re not looking but easy to find if you are, just to the north of the unbelievably massive Shinjuku train station. There’s one center, narrow alley, the interesting one. To one side is the main street and to the other is a back street containing more eating and drinking establishments. The back street (the east side, by the railroad line) has several great places, including an izakaya I where I ate several times. Red lanterns are everywhere, the places looking in general, like dinners, one two with larger (for here) circular counters.
You’ll read stories about how gangsters and low-lifes used to hang out here, but I doubt it. It’s obviously an older area, but it’s been maintained to stay a certain way, with this atmosphere, a post-war poverty theme area. Back in the 1940s, perhaps it was unlicensed drinking spots, but not today. It may ruin things for you to know that much of the area was destroyed in a 1999 fire, and it was rebuilt to look the same ramshackle way. It’s a deliberate theme.
The middle alleyway, very narrow, is your goal. You walk in and immediately you want to take photos. Dozens of people like me are probably snapping away every night. The alley is crooked in a photogenic way, dingy in a photogenic way, randomly-lit in a photogenic way. It’s made for street photography, and you love it immediately. It was brilliant, a bit of a Blade Runner element to it. You walk through at the slowest pace possible, flanked by dozens of small establishments. Look left, there’s a man fanning the coals. Look right, there’s someone in front of a bubbling stew pot. The places are mostly known for their yakitori, grilled chicken parts. The Japanese don’t limit themselves–yakitori skewers can feature hearts, gizzards, or just plain skin. Vegetarians have it tough here, but there are veggie options, if you can figure them out. A few places supposedly serve raw frog, pig’s testicle, and other food designed to shock, but that’s not the norm.
Japan is an easy country to manage, but difficult to penetrate. Many places are not welcoming of non-Japanese. Moving down the alley, many places looked not welcoming, at all. Many had their doors and windows closed, or were recessed in a way that doesn’t invite people. You feel strange taking photos, but you take some anyway. It was lightly raining the first time I visited and that added to everything I felt. So appropriate. Tall, blue-eyed gaijin trying to blend in with the yakitori joints. There was no English anywhere except one or two with small “English menu available” signs. One place, on the left, had a nice girl working near the doorway who looked at me several times. Many of the places are staffed with younger woman, which must attract the salarymen.
I choose a nearby place, with a very cute young woman behind the counter and a narrow bench in front of it. The whole place would hold eight people if we squeezed, and this was typical. Everyone was facing the grill. I took off my now-damp jacket and the girl pointed to a narrow shelf high on the wall behind me. Smart. She surprisingly put an English menu in front of me, which listed all combinations of skewers, chicken and pork. One example was a combo with chicken meatballs, wings, breast, bacon-wrapped leeks, and pork belly with leek, about $7.50 US. Another combo was veggies: garlic, asparagus, scallions, and mushrooms, $5. Nothing seafood. Everything is cooked with your choice of either salt (shio) or a tare sauce, which is dark soy and a touch sweet, better.
Sake to drink, please, and she filled a flask from a large bottle behind her, while she cooked my skewers in front of me. Each sake order was $6, and I stayed for several. Most places just have beer, sake, shochu, and oolong-hai (tea mixed with shochu) for beverages, or perhaps some type of umeshu, fruit liqueur such as plum.
I talked to the girl some of course, then the guy next to me struck up a convo. He looked like a salaryman, a generic businessman hitting the bar before stumbling home. I always imagine a salaryman as looking haggard and disheveled, their image in Japan. His two companions fit the part better. He spoke English decently, having lived in Philadelphia for a year and was quite friendly. I met the two friends, who didn’t speak English. They pushed a dish towards me. “Can you eat pig ear?” he asked. I picked up a wrinkled, cut piece and popped it. Not bad at all. Yes, I can eat pig ear. My new friend told me that the yakitori girl in front of me was Chinese, and after he and his friends left, I talked to her some. I would find many more Chinese in Tokyo.
Another night there, I stopped at the Albatross, seemingly the only bar (as opposed to a yakitori joint) in Piss Alley, and surprisingly cheap for Tokyo. I ordered a gin & tonic, squeezed into the bench, and met the two guys behind the bar, who were super friendly. They were eating a particularly disgusting food, they said, and asked if I would be able to eat it, if I wanted to try. This must be a game people play with the foreigners. They presented me with a small dish. I think it was fried insects, such as locusts, and they were quite easy to eat. Just crunchy salty. They had already given me a small bowl of rice crackers and pretzels, which probably was a cover charge dish, since they didn’t refill it on my second drink.
The two bartenders and I chatted away. The other customers left soon after I arrived, but more soon arrived, two Americans from Florida. She was Mimi, short, very cute, with long auburn hair. His name I forget, so now he’s Jack. They sat next to me because everyone sits shoulder to shoulder in Piss Alley. Jack and Mimi were here for the Tokyo Auto Salon, a massive car show. Jack is some auto parts supplier, distributor, or something boring that probably pays the bills rather decently, and Mimi is his model. “I’ll be the shortest model there,” she declared. We’re all sitting on a single long bench, and Mimi is the type who swings her body around on these. She put her feet up and faced me. She’s going to be a very successful model.
I generally found food and drink prices in Piss Alley to be notably lower than in other Tokyo areas. This place is a bargain, and the atmosphere is unmatchable. Some places may flat-out turn you away–they don’t want to deal with foreigners. “What a huge and short-sighted loss for you,” you should simply declare to them, no more, and then dismiss them utterly and try the place next door. If a place is crowded, it may have a good reputation, and empty places may be empty for a reason. If you can’t read the menu and there’s no translation, just ask for yakitori, or point to something on a neighbor’s plate. Other options beyond grilled chicken parts include organ meats, which is what is usually bubbling away in those stew pots, although some may be oden, fishcake.
Whatever you eat or drink, it will likely be a very Japanese experience.
Piss Alley
Location: a street address doesn’t help much here (or in many places in Tokyo), but here it is:
Hours: Starting at random times during the day, running until the wee hours. Most places don’t open until later afternoon. It’s hard to imagine going here in the daylight.
