A backstreet kitchen

We opened the appetite half of this walk back on the front street, with the famous crepe — the snack made for a photograph. Let's close it here, in the back, with the food that isn't performing for anyone.

Look around these lanes and picture what's behind the smaller doors. A counter with eight stools and a pot of ramen broth that's been simmering since morning. A narrow izakaya where office workers and designers crowd in for grilled skewers and a drink after dark. A tiny place doing one modern dessert perfectly. This is the eating that locals actually do — unhurried, unglamorous, and often genuinely great.

As with the coffee, I'm not going to name a single spot, and I'm doing that on purpose. The particular restaurants turn over; the kind of place endures. What you're learning to find is the backstreet kitchen: small, specific, a little hidden, run by someone who cares about exactly one thing. Follow a short line of locals, or the smell of something grilling, down a lane you'd otherwise skip, and you'll eat better than any crepe queue can offer.

That's the whole appetite story in two stops — from the tourist snack out front to the quiet kitchen the neighborhood keeps for itself. Front and back, on a plate.

Now for the strangest street on the walk. Head out of the lanes toward a long, flat, gently curving promenade of shops — because that curve underfoot used to be a river. Welcome to Cat Street.