Fifteen minutes after visiting Fushimi Inari-taisha shrine, Nijiro's Skyline pulled to a stop on a cobblestone street in Kyoto, among wooden houses and paper lanterns swaying in the breeze. The midday sun warmed the air, which carried the scent of cherry blossoms and tatami.
The restaurant, Aji Fukushima, blended seamlessly with the traditional facades, marked only by a blue noren curtain at the entrance.
"Where's the place?" I asked, looking around.
"Right here," Nijiro said, pulling the curtain aside. "Come on in."
"Thank goodness it was supposed to be five-star…" Mrekk muttered, eyeing the understated exterior.
"It is—and it's got a Michelin star, too," Nijiro replied with a smirk.
"A Michelin star!?" we all exclaimed, stunned.
"I wanted to share a once-in-a-lifetime experience with you guys," Nijiro said, laughing. "Come on, get in there," he urged, holding the curtain open.
We stepped into a narrow corridor lit by paper lanterns that cast a warm glow on polished wooden walls. A faint scent of incense and dashi broth hung in the air.
To the left, an open doorway led into a small room: a long cherry-wood table in the center, surrounded by cushions neatly arranged on tatami mats that creaked softly underfoot.
Each place was set with a red tray ready for the courses, and beyond the table we could see the open kitchen—gleaming copper pots and fresh ingredients lined up in perfect rows.
The place was intimate, seating no more than six, and the five of us had the whole room to ourselves.
"This place is on another level," I thought as I slipped off my shoes and felt the soft tatami beneath my feet.
The chef, Yoshikatsu Tsuji—a man in his forties wearing a spotless apron and a gentle smile—emerged from the kitchen and spoke rapidly in Japanese with Nijiro, a stream of words that was complete mystery to me.
Then he switched to fluent English, catching us off guard. "Hello, I'm Chef Tsuji. Today I'll treat you to an unforgettable kaiseki—a twelve-course journey through the flavors of Kyoto," he said, bowing gracefully.
Nijiro bowed in return, and we followed one by one in an almost synchronized motion.
We settled onto the cushions, the tatami giving slightly under our weight, creating a cozy, almost meditative atmosphere.
We chose the chef's kaiseki menu, and Tsuji nodded before returning to the kitchen with precise movements.
The meal began—each course a small work of art, served with care. The portions were modest but intense, bursts of flavor that left you speechless, though some vanished quickly compared to the true stars of the show.
The chef opened with the sakizuke: creamy black sesame tofu with sweet miso sauce and shiso leaves that tingled on the tongue—a first bite that exploded with sweetness and freshness.
"There couldn't be a better start," I thought, stunned by the delicacy.
"Forget onigiri," Mrekk said, eyes wide.
"I already feel like I'm in heaven after the first course," BTMC added.
Next came the zensai: buttery tuna tartare, salmon roe that popped in the mouth with briny ocean flavor, and edamame salted with yuzu for a bright, citrusy note.
"This lunch is worth the whole day," I said, dipping a piece and marveling at the contrast of textures.
"This tuna's gotta be at least ten-star," Ivaxa declared, raising his chopsticks.
"You analyze food like it's a track?" BTMC teased.
Then the mukozuke arrived—a trio of sashimi: rich and juicy yellowtail, delicate sea bream with a sweet aftertaste, and tender squid, paired with fresh wasabi. Each slice was cut with surgical precision and served with house-made soy sauce.
I dipped a piece in the soy. The wasabi brought tears to my eyes, but it was surprisingly pleasant. "This is incredible!"
"This squid is unreal," Mrekk said, stealing an edamame from Nijiro.
"Hey, eat your own!" Nijiro protested, laughing.
The yakimono followed: a fillet of wagyu grilled over binchotan charcoal, melting in the mouth with smoky depth, accompanied by citrusy ponzu and freshly grated daikon—a balance so intense it left me speechless.
"The wagyu we had in Sumida doesn't even compare," I said.
"Though that portion was definitely bigger," I added after swallowing the bite.
"How am I ever going back to hamburgers…" BTMC declared, cleaning his plate.
The meal ended with the mizumono: a fresh, tart yuzu jelly with juicy berries and intense, grassy cold matcha tea—a refreshing finish that left a pleasant lingering taste.
"A finale that really sticks with you," I thought, sipping the tea as the sweet-tart contrast refreshed me completely.
"Masterpiece," Nijiro said, snapping one last photo.
The courses—small but powerful—were bursts of flavor I'll never forget.
"An experience worth every yen," I thought, full and satisfied despite the modest portions.
We paid 10,000 yen each—about 60 euros. No one was shocked by the price; by now we were used to Nijiro's extravagance.
We bowed goodbye to the chef and stepped out of the restaurant.
"Thanks, Nijiro," I said. "That lunch was incredible."
"Don't mention it," he replied. "It's something I'd wanted to do for a long time, and it was even better with you guys."
"Next stop?" Mrekk asked, stretching.
"Kyoto's full of traditional shrines, but seeing them all would get boring. Now I'm taking you to the most beautiful part of Gion, the city's most famous district," Nijiro said, starting the Skyline.
"Never heard of it, but we trust you," Mrekk replied, climbing into his Corolla.
We drove for a few minutes, weaving between paved roads and cobblestone alleys as we hunted for parking—you could only leave the car right in front of the restaurant while you were eating.
"We're parking here; from now on it's on foot," Nijiro explained, pointing down a narrow lane.
"How far are we walking?" BTMC asked, already sounding wiped before we had even started.
"About five minutes, then we're right at the street I want to show you," Nijiro answered, setting off with a brisk stride.
We covered the distance on foot, the warm air thick with the smells of street food—grilled yakitori, fresh mochi—mingled with incense drifting from nearby temples.
As we walked, a girl of about sixteen approached shyly, black hair tied back in a ponytail, a nervous look on her face.
She started speaking in Japanese, her voice shaky: "Ano… sumimasen, Murakami Nijiro-san… desu ka?"
A huge wave of satisfaction hit me right then. "I understood that! She's asking if he's Nijiro!"
"Un, ore da yo," Nijiro replied casually, confirming it—at least that's what I figured, since my Japanese still wasn't good enough to be sure.
The girl asked for a photo, and Mrekk took it for them.
In no time, a dozen more people appeared asking for selfies, forming a little crowd around him.
Flashes popping, excited chatter in Japanese, Nijiro posing with his professional smile—like Gion had suddenly turned into an impromptu meet-and-greet.
"I won Worlds and nobody asks me for a picture," I thought, half jealous, half amused. Osu! was niche; Apex Legends and Nijiro's movies weren't.
We spent the next ten minutes waiting for him on a nearby bench while the sun beat down and the air kept getting hotter.
"How do they only ever ask him?" Mrekk huffed, arms crossed.
"Same thing crossed my mind," I said, laughing as I wiped sweat off my forehead.
"Just look at the numbers," Ivaxa said, ever the analyst. "He's got more followers than all of yours put together."
"In America people stopped me sometimes," BTMC added with a shrug, "partly because besides Osu! I also played Minecraft, which is way bigger."
Nijiro finally came over to the bench, face flushed but still smiling. "Guys, I'm done. You get a nice rest?"
"Nijiro, how come no one stopped you the last few days, but today they did?" I asked, curious.
"Well, first, it did happen in Akihabara, but I wasn't with you guys then. And Japanese people have this ethic about not bothering others," Nijiro explained.
"They might give me a hesitant glance, like they're debating whether it's worth stopping me, but in the end they almost never actually speak up," he went on.
"But if one person finds the courage to come over and ask for a photo, then the rest follow. That's when the chain reaction starts," he finished.
"So basically, being famous in Japan means you don't get bothered too much," BTMC said, nodding sagely.
"Enough questions—let's get moving," Nijiro said, taking the lead again.
As we started walking, Nijiro launched into an explanation of the district with the enthusiasm of someone who knew every corner, his voice bouncing off the narrow streets.
Gion, one of Kyoto's oldest and most iconic neighborhoods, was a maze of narrow, enchanting lanes—a place where time seemed to stand still, blending geisha tradition with the very essence of historical Japan.
"Born during the Edo period as an entertainment district for pilgrims visiting nearby Yasaka Shrine, Gion became the symbol of geisha culture, with its ochaya—tea houses—and the maiko, apprentice geisha, who still walk the streets in kimono today," Nijiro explained, gesturing like a documentary narrator.
"Thanks for the unsolicited tour guide," Mrekk remarked.
"Yeah, gotta admit, that was a little too detailed," I added.
"Right!?" Mrekk shot back. "Felt like I just read the Wikipedia page on the neighborhood!"
We all cracked up.
"This story—my parents used to tell it to me every time they brought me to Kyoto," Nijiro admitted, a faint blush on his cheeks as he kept walking with a confident stride.
The air carried a delicate scent of green tea and incense drifting from artisan shops selling hand-painted fans, kintsugi ceramics, and wagashi sweets shaped like tiny works of art.
The streets were paved with uneven stones and lined with machiya—traditional wooden townhouses with latticed facades—hiding secret courtyards and Zen gardens behind them.
From somewhere nearby came the gentle sound of an artificial stream and a koto, the Japanese harp, filtering out into the lane and weaving an almost magical atmosphere.
We wandered a bit, weaving through crowds of tourists and locals, until Nijiro stopped and pointed ahead. "This is the spot—the real highlight beyond just the Gion district. Welcome to Higashiyama."
Mrekk let out a loud "Aaaah—so you meant the pagoda! I've seen it on TikTok."
We were standing in front of Hōkan-ji Temple, better known as Yasaka Pagoda—a 46-meter tower rising in the distance.
Before us stretched a row of traditional houses with curved roofs and red lanterns, all framed by cherry trees that, even without blossoms, lent a poetic touch.
The atmosphere buzzed with life: the murmur of the crowd, incense rising from a small nearby altar, sunlight filtering through the leaves and dancing across the cobblestones.
As we walked, we browsed the little shops—one selling fans decorated with geisha scenes, another hand-painted ceramics that looked straight out of a museum.
At the top of the street, a blue sign caught my eye; it looked familiar, but the crowd and distance blurred it—until I got closer and saw it was Totoro, with his wide grin and big round eyes.
It was the official Studio Ghibli store—the legendary animation studio I had discovered thanks to Mathew.
"Guys, let's check out the shop," I said. "By the way—do you watch anime?"
"Duh! How do you not know Studio Ghibli?" Mrekk exclaimed, heading in first.
Inside, it was a fan's paradise: shelves packed with merchandise from every film—action figures of Kaonashi, my favorite Ghibli character from Spirited Away; mugs from The Boy and the Heron; Jiji plushies from Kiki's Delivery Service.
The air smelled of fresh paper and new plastic, with soft music from the movies playing in the background, filling the place with a warm, nostalgic joy.
"Favorite film?" Nijiro asked, scanning the shelves.
"Howl's Moving Castle for me," Mrekk answered, poking through the gadgets.
"Mine too," BTMC added, nodding eagerly.
"Princess Mononoke for me—though The Wind Rises is great too," I said, remembering the night I had spent on Discord watching it with Mathew.
"Spirited Away," Ivaxa said, flipping through an art book.
"Nah, Porco Rosso is hands-down the best," Nijiro declared, like a true connoisseur.
In the window sat a gigantic Totoro plush—the studio's fluffy, smiling mascot—almost as tall as me, with that wide grin and big eyes that seemed to promise adventure.
"Guys, should we get the mega Totoro?" BTMC asked, pointing at the limited-edition XXL.
"And carry it around all day?" Nijiro said, raising an eyebrow.
"No problem—I'll load it in my car," Mrekk offered.
"Plus, this one's a limited-edition XXL, and it's even 20% off," Ivaxa added.
"Do whatever you want, but it's yours to deal with," Nijiro said with a shrug.
BTMC paid 17,000 yen—about 100 euros—and now the crew had a new member: a giant Totoro he carried under his arm like an oversized trophy.
"It'll be a pain lugging this around, but anything for Totoro," BTMC said, weaving through the crowd with the plush, drawing amused glances.
"You thought about the airport? For something this big you'll have to buy it its own ticket. It won't fit in a suitcase, and I'm not even sure they'll let you carry it on," I warned, laughing.
"I'll figure that out later—right now it doesn't matter," BTMC replied, shrugging it off.
We kept exploring, soaking in a side of Japan made not of skyscrapers but of stylish temples and stone-paved lanes.