At first, we almost missed it, this humble place, tucked away in a quiet neighborhood, hidden within the walls of an old house—plain, unremarkable, yet overlooking a small garden that breathes life into its simplicity. Upon entering, we shed our shoes, as if leaving behind the burdens of the world, and sank into the warmth of soft tatami mats. The air, light yet purposeful, was filled with the quiet hum of friendliness from the staff, who greeted us as if we were old friends returning home.

We ordered breakfast—their set meal of soft, brown egg rice that seemed to hold more than mere nourishment. My plate: gyoza, wrapped in tender dough, filled with fresh, savory meat that melted under the touch of sauces, each bite a quiet revelation. My companion, she had scrambled eggs with chicken—simple, yet prepared with such care. The waitress, attentive, with a knowing smile, showed us how to blend the flavors, how each small dish could become part of something greater, together.

The presentation, too, was a tender thing—delicate, each plate a quiet poem composed of humble ingredients. And that rice—fluffy, soft, almost too creamy to be real—was unlike anything I had ever tasted. There was peace in it, a small joy that stayed long after the meal had ended.

And all this—this beauty, this taste, this experience—cost us only a little over 3000 yen, dessert and taxes included. A modest sum for something so full of quiet wonder. And so, we left, content, with hearts lightened, bidding farewell to this small oasis.