THE LURE OF OSAKA
Wander beyond the tourist traps and see Osaka for its culture of fine craftsmanship
OSAKA—the late great Anthony Bourdain once called it “the culinary heart of Japan” and reminded us of an old Japanese saying that goes along the lines of: Tokyo people spend too much money on nice shoes, Kyoto people spend too much money on nice clothes, while Osaka people spend too much money on good food and drink—to the point of hedonistic indulgence known in Japanese as “kuiadore” or to eat ’til you drop. A couple hundred meters down the Dotonbori river, away from the Shinsaibashi strip of shopping is a sleepy area called Sakuragawa that’s grown to become some sort of a second home to me. Often when people bring up Osaka, you might hear the usual Shinsaibashi recommendations—the long lines at hyped-up “must-try” chains from various parts of the country. A little rule I follow when looking for new places to eat in is to avoid those that have a sign in bold letters at the door that says: “English OK!” Because when it comes to places to eat in, I believe in eating as locals do, not only to experience a city, but also to understand it. More often than not, the challenge of ordering a dish, because of the language barrier, has only led me to great places that are not exactly part of the mainstream lists of places to try in Osaka, or anywhere in the world. The connection I have to Osaka is also strengthened by the fact that the city is home to an industry that has grown rapidly in the last 20 years: men’s wear. Specifically, the Japanese denim scene, which is only a subculture within the bigger Amekaji or American casual in Japanese fashion. Osaka is home to pioneers of the industry, and many of these brands and their brick-andmortar stores can be found within areas less known to the usual tourist. Across Midosuji avenue that runs parallel to the Shinsaibashi shopping strip is one of my favorite areas to walk through. It’s a quirky area known as Amerikamura— one might call it “Little America.” The West has various Chinatowns, with traditional Chinese arches greeting visitors at the entrance, and here, it’s hard to miss the downsized Statue of Liberty perched atop one of the buildings in the district. I frequent a couple of stores every time I’m in the area, doing rounds to browse and examine vintage clothing. Pigsty is located on the third floor of one of the buildings, with no visible signage, but boasts a large selection of vintage clothing that spans from militaria from the 1940s to true vintage band tees and world tour merchandise from decades past. Magnets is a smaller store that also sells vintage American casual clothing and various military-issued flight jackets. Through the years, I’ve learned not to expect what might otherwise be known as a “steal” by thrifters. To put it simply:
you get what you pay for. Unlike some stores, these sellers and their inventory are not labeled vintage just because they are old and second-hand items. As with anything Japanese, buying, selling, and collecting vintage clothing in Japan is something that has been studied and researched. The Japanese have spent decades since the postwar era cataloguing everything from American kitchenware, military-issued garments from as early as World War I to Ivy League University sweatshirts, Frontier-era Levi’s found beaten up by miners during the gold rush, to tie-dyed Grateful Dead tees from the cultural revolution of the 1960s. Most of the time, when I visit these places I don’t expect to buy anything, being someone who doesn’t exactly shop for clothing. I tend to study hobbies I get into, so the vintage clothing scene in Japan has really served as a chance to learn more about things that have lasted past their periods. You’ll find me in the area looking for a decent cup of coffee or the next bowl of noodles. Granknot Roasters is a quiet shop that specializes in hand-drip coffee. I found this place taking a detour from my usual route in
the area one hot summer day and thought it served as the perfect rest stop; great music and even better full-bodied iced coffee. A hidden-in-plain-sight store that I’ve never missed a trip to is Suzume—a small tsukemen bar that serves mainly only two dishes from a ticket vending machine: a hearty portion of homemade noodles alongside a scalding hot bowl of fish- and pork-based broth with pork belly slices so tender it can be sliced by one swift motion of chopsticks. The second item is a spicy version. Typical of a Japanese ramen bar, customers simply line up, eat, and go about their day. One late evening during a business trip, I decided to look for that night’s watering hole. An unsuspecting old, run-down building caught my eye because of a particular bit of signage that was reminiscent of a counter-culture hippie basement. I walked into the building and was greeted by what could be described as a bodega of beer crates and discarded furniture. The wornout doors lead to respective dive bars, most do not welcome gaijin or outsiders. This is a common practice for smaller establishments in Japan, usually implemented to avoid complicated service—efficiency, after all, is one of the traits the Japanese are known for. I walked into Ganja-Acid, a psychedelic bar owned by an old man who welcomes me into his four-seater den, dimly lit with red lights. The man in the red-lensed glasses is Tetsujin-san, who owns the place and doubles as the bartender. Soon as I ordered a drink from his short list, he put on his songs that, without warning, suddenly snatched me from a bar in Osaka, bringing me to a somewhat dreamlike physical state I could only liken to the vibe of the movie adaptation of Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas. There are no illicit substances used, as the name might make one assume. Just an ice cold beer to
end the day, an old man whose name literally translates to “Iron Man” blasting music from Jefferson Airplane. When coming to these hole-in-the-wall bars, I’ve found that often more intoxicating than the drink of choice is the ambiance that envelops and transports you to the owner’s world. Three minutes away from our family’s apartment is Orange Street, a strip somewhat similar to those found in Tokyo’s Harajuku district. The surrounding Horie area is a breeding ground for upcoming brands or the more underground scene; the type to be found by stumbling into their stores rather than advertising their existence. My go-to store is one that is literally underground, found in the basement of an old red-brick building, “The Ultimate Seeker” in the world of Americana menswear—The Real McCoy’s. Founded by Hitoshi Tsujimoto in the late 1990s, The Real McCoy’s produces exact reproductions of garments from Tsujimoto-san’s vast archive of vintage garments, from Native American Navajo blankets to horsehide motorcycle jackets from the 1930s and government-issued garments from WWII and onwards. Their Osaka store could be likened to a military bunker, filled with meticulously crafted garments that are the product of years of intensive research and development guided by product knowledge brought by staff as passionate as their customers. The Real McCoy’s started from Tsujimoto-san’s love for vintage items—when the market for it grew in Japan, the available inventory for enthusiasts started to diminish. The brand manufactures items that go beyond the means of production—instead of creating something similar, they produce things exactly the way they were made back in the day, stitch by stitch, hence the Prohibitionera namesake “The Real McCoy” or the real thing. I fell in love with the brand for their attention to detail, knowing that the products I pick up from them are going to last years and age like fine wine. Further away from the main area is a homey restaurant frequented by locals and salarymen in the Sakuragawa district. Uraya is a cozy teishoku or set meal restaurant with a busy open kitchen in the middle of the establishment. The menu consists of various set meals created for different types of people and the kind of meal they might need for their activities, made only with farm-fresh ingredients found in Japan. What I love most about places like these is the simplicity of their food choices, and the quality of ingredients: organic raw eggs with yolks that are more sunset red than sunny yellow and rice from local regions that have a sought-after sweetness and density, cooked flawlessly to accompany the main dish, like
fresh saba or mackarel fillet or juicy chicken karaage being the most popular meals on their menu. For late-night yakiniku, I’d usually walk down Naniwa-suji to a lesser known chain called Jonetsu Horumon to enjoy fresh meat cooked on red-hot charcoal grills on each table. It’s easy to spot from afar their towering billboard framed by bright lights illuminating the street outside; the restaurant locks you in with a waft of the smell of the grill and next thing you know, you’re on highball number three with another order of horumon or cow innards on the way to your table. Occasionally, I still find myself in a crowd of tourists in the main area of Shinsaibashi. I suggest doing what I do and take a detour into any small street you can find—go against the flow. Nestled in one of them is a traditional shabu-shabu joint called Shabutei Mitsuderasuji. The shop has a tiny entrance but is actually a couple floors high. It’s no surprise that they pull in both tourists and locals—the shop makes their goma tare or sesame dipping sauce in house, with a machine constantly mixing the brew right at the storefront. It’s the perfect sauce for thinly sliced meat so flawless one might mistake it for a wax sample plate. Personally, I take comfort traveling to Japan simply because of the respect the people have for their craft, whether it’s an artisan or shokunin with callused hands, or a shop clerk taking a summer job who’s just happy to be selling things he or she loves. Frequently flying to Osaka for the holidays and for occasional business trips forced me to wander beyond the tired tourist spots—meeting a few locals, stumbling into tiny bars, restaurants, and shops, and making a few friends along the way; as one must always be open to doing while traveling. A tip I can offer is to not be hesitant to ask questions or strike up conversation, often the locals are just as curious about you as you are about them. There are countless things to be learned through travel beyond institutional guides, lists, and shows; nothing compares to actual human interaction and immersion in the city you’re in. The places we visit are only as great as the stories we can tell of them. Pack light, look around, and be present.