Naoya Kurishita, a former economic journalist, inexplicably writes a lot about alcohol. In this series, Kurishita visits bars that were once favorites of great figures. What kind of drinks did politicians, literary giants, and businessmen drink, what did they talk about, and how did they enjoy their evenings? This is an "adult's bar travelogue" in which he actually visits the establishments, savors the drinks and their history, and catches a glimpse of the daily lives of these great figures.

The second restaurant we'll be visiting is "Lunchon" in Jinbocho, a favorite of Kenichi Yoshida, the eldest son of former Prime Minister Shigeru Yoshida, and a scholar of English literature and a novelist.

How well-known is Kenichi Yoshida, the eldest son of former Prime Minister Shigeru Yoshida?

Because of my job, I often read old newspaper articles. The other day, as I was flipping through a 2000 issue of the Nikkei Shimbun (or rather, looking at the data), a particular sentence caught my eye.

"Yoshida Kenichi is, needless to say, a critic and novelist whose representative works include the critical essay 'British Literature' and the novella 'Kanazawa'."

The phrase "Needless to say" really bothers me. It was written by English literature scholar Yoshiyuki Fujikawa. I wonder, even now, a quarter of a century after that article was written, is Kenichi Yoshida still "needless to say" such a person? Or rather, was he really like that even back then? I'm a little skeptical.

Just to clarify, Kenichi Yoshida (1912-1977) was a scholar of English literature, a critic, and a novelist. His representative work, "British Literature," is a kind of sacred text for English literature scholars, a book that teaches that "literature is a joy." That's the general description, but honestly, more people probably know him as the son of Prime Minister Shigeru Yoshida and as an elite who studied at Cambridge before the war than people who have actually read his works.

This much is enough to fill you up, but there's more. And this is the main point. He was also an exceptional gourmet. There's even a theory that he coined the term "Kaga cuisine." Every February, he would frequent the Kanazawa restaurant "Tsubajin" and enjoy sake while gazing at the Sai River. In short, although it's not entirely clear what he was writing about, he was well-bred, never had to worry about making ends meet, and was the epitome of a connoisseur. Writing this is starting to annoy me a little.

Despite his illustrious career, Yoshida surprisingly frequented a certain establishment in Jinbocho. It was "Lunchon," a beer restaurant founded in 1909. Yoshida, who taught at Chuo University, would always settle into a window seat at this restaurant on days he had lectures. You might want to say he "stopped by," but that's not entirely accurate. He would have been leisurely drinking there even before his lectures began, so it's more accurate to say he "sitted down" rather than "stopped by." I feel like I would have liked to be taught by such a teacher, but at the same time, it seems like it would have been quite exhausting.

A beer mug and beef pie at 4 PM on a weekday.

It was 4 PM on a weekday. After exiting Jimbocho Station and walking a short distance down Yasukuni Street, a restaurant with a stately facade that could easily be mistaken for an English pub rather than a Western-style restaurant appeared.

Stepping inside, I was surprised to find only one other customer. A group of three elderly men were quietly sipping their beers by the window. Enjoying a draft beer on a weekday afternoon, gazing out the window at the bustling Yasukuni Street, without a care in the world about work—I don't know of many more luxuries than this. Or rather, I suppose someone might ask, "What about work?", but this sense of transgression makes the beer taste even better.

Even though I usually prefer highballs, I always start with a draft beer here. At Lunchon, there's a tradition that only the current owner is allowed to pour the draft beer. A glass with a fine, creamy head of foam is brought to the table. Taking a sip, I'm delighted by the perfect balance of crispness and richness. When the restaurant opened in 1909, there were only two Western-style restaurants in Tokyo, so a place that served draft beer must have felt like a gateway to another world.

Incidentally, the shop's name was given by students from the Tokyo Music School (now Tokyo University of the Arts), which was located nearby at the time, who thought it was a shame that the shop didn't have a name. It's hard to imagine now, with all the attention to shop names, that the motivation for naming it was simply "because it was a shame," but it's very Meiji-era and I like it.

Without hesitation, I ordered the beef pie as an appetizer. When I cut into the crispy pastry crust, a rich beef stew appeared with a spritz of steam. The stew, made with a demi-glace sauce that takes a week to prepare, is thickened, wrapped in pastry, deep-fried, and then baked in the oven. It's a dish that clearly takes a lot of effort to make.

And this beef pie was actually created based on a request from Kenichi Yoshida.

Yoshida asked the third-generation owner of the restaurant at the time if it would be possible to prepare his favorite beef stew in a way that he could eat it with his hands. The reason he made such a request was that he was so engrossed in conversation that he found using utensils troublesome. This gentleman, a scholar of English literature who had returned from Cambridge and was the eldest son of Shigeru Yoshida, wanted to eat with his hands. One would think he should just eat the stew with a spoon, but requests from valued customers cannot be ignored, no matter the era. After much trial and error, this beef pie was perfected, sometime in the 40s.

His usual seat was always the second row from the right at the back. At 1 p.m. on Thursdays, three or four editors would already be gathered, clinking their mugs. Yoshida would appear and laugh heartily, saying, "This is on the publisher's treat, not mine." He would tell anecdotes about Valéry and Gide, laughing "Heh heh heh," and encourage the younger staff to drink more, laughing, "I'm not the one paying." He seemed to be a man who possessed both the magnanimity of a feudal lord and the innocence of a child.

When the afternoon session ended, he began by saying, "Now it's time for Lipton." You might expect a stylish British gentleman's tea time—but the teacup that was brought out contained a double shot of whiskey. Two glasses of beer followed by a double shot of whiskey, and calling this "Lipton"—I found myself feeling a certain fondness for it. It's true that the color is similar to tea.

There is no shortage of anecdotes about this place. On one occasion, Luncheon caught fire. As flames rose from the second floor, a large man calmly continued to drink beer on the first floor. Even when firefighters urged him to leave because it was dangerous, he calmly replied, "I'm still... okay." It is said that this man was Kenichi Yoshida. He was not okay at all. While these stories may be exaggerated, the very fact that such legends were born speaks volumes about how Yoshida had established "his place" in this restaurant.

Things that change, things that remain the same

Jimbocho is a town that is constantly changing, yet remains the same.

From the time when the Shogunate's Shoheisaka Academy was located in Yushima, this area was dotted with shops selling books. In the Meiji era, law schools were built one after another in the vicinity, and as these developed into universities such as Meiji, Hosei, Chuo, and Senshu, Jimbocho became a town of scholars and students. Even today, it is a rare town in the world with over 100 used bookstores in operation.

Come to think of it, this town is a gathering place for people who cherish things that remain unchanged. Book lovers wander from shop to shop in search of out-of-print books and the writings of authors who will never write again. For them, "unchanging" is a virtue. In a new bookstore, if the book you're looking for isn't in stock, they'll say, "We'll order it for you," but in a used bookstore, they simply accept that "it wasn't meant to be." That's the way of a book lover.

Lunchon is located in the heart of the city, miraculously survived the Great Kanto Earthquake, the air raids of World War II, and the fire in question, and has stood here to this day. Since the Meiji era, they have continued to pour beer in the same place and in the same style. The window seats in this shop are probably a place you can return to no matter how much the world changes. Yoshida must have felt the same way.

In 2026, I honestly don't know if Kenichi Yoshida is still a figure who "needs no introduction." But the beef pie he loved still tastes undeniably delicious.

Today's recommendation

Asahi Draft Beer (480cc) 770 yen
Asahi Black Draft Beer (480cc) 790 yen
Highball (Black Nikka Clear) 650 yen
Highball (double) 950 yen

Beef pie 1600 yen
Smoked salmon 1500 yen

Shop information

Luncheon

Address: 1-6 Kanda Jimbocho, Chiyoda-ku, Tokyo
Opening hours: Tuesday to Friday 11:30 AM to 21:30 PM, Saturday 11:30 AM to 20:30 PM

Access: Approximately 1 minute walk from Exit A5 of Jimbocho Station on the Tokyo Metro and other lines.
Approximately 10 minutes on foot from Ochanomizu Station on the JR and other lines.
Approximately 10 minutes on foot from Suidobashi Station on the JR and other lines.

Naoya Kurishita

Born in 1980 in Tokyo, he is a writer and book reviewer. After completing his studies in business administration at the Graduate School of International Social Sciences, Yokohama National University, he worked for a specialist magazine before becoming independent. Although he started out as an economic journalist, he somehow writes a lot about alcohol. His books include "What I Learned About Life from Getting Drunk" (Sayusha), "How Great People Survive: Side Hustles, Job Changes, Financial Strategies, and Begging" (ibid.), "The Drinking Habits of Politicians: The Drinkers Who Moved the World" (Heibonsha Shinsho), and "Profit and Virtue" (CE Media House).