A downtown tablein a Tokyo row house

This is Tokyo's shitamachi, the old town on the east side of the Yamanote Line. Small boats sat moored in a basin backed by high-rise apartments. Beyond a stone torii stood the hall of Sumiyoshi Shrine, and the alleys were lined with rusted mailboxes, potted plants and bicycles.

Many corners here escaped the wartime fires, and you can still feel the culture and air of those days. At the end of a narrow alley, a red torii caught the morning sun.

Under the eaves hung an old wooden sign reading Ganso Tsukudani Tenyasu. Founded in 1837, in the Tenpo era, it is the oldest tsukudani shop still standing in Tsukuda. A noren curtain with the shop's name hung from the tiled eaves, and a banner out front announced the founding year.

Inside the glass case, tsukudani was heaped in red wooden trays: squid, clams. A storefront that feels like the good old days, a world apart from Tokyo's glittering towers.

I walked down a sunlit street to the tofu shop, a small place with a green awning. In the chilled case out front sat firm and silken tofu, fried tofu and ganmodoki, each with a red price tag. It is a popular shop that also supplies restaurants in the neighborhood.

The second-floor wall was clad in copper sheets gone green with age, with a ventilation pipe poking out. Across the Sumida River, high-rises stood in a row and the water sparkled. I like how time moves slowly and peacefully here.

Time to make breakfast with what I bought. I chopped green onions and slid a salmon fillet into the toaster oven. Once the skin was crisp and golden, I scooped rice from the cooker in the kitchen.

Past the steep wooden stairs, I carried the tray to the low table in front of the shoji screens. Freshly cooked rice, freshly grilled salmon. Miso soup with the just-made tofu and chopped green onions, and tsukudani, the shitamachi specialty.

In the striped dish, clam and kelp tsukudani, simmered sweet and salty, perfect with white rice. A good-mood breakfast.

My lodging is an inn in an old row house in the shitamachi, where the owner's grandfather's treasured belongings are on display: the box of an old projector beneath a wooden shelf, a camera resting in its leather case.

Traveling abroad was rare in those days. Looking at the camera that captured those journeys and the visas stamped in his passport, I could imagine his memories. One of the visas was dated 1960.

When it comes to shitamachi food, it has to be monjayaki. Monja began as a snack for children at the penny-candy shops, which, I think, is why making and eating it is as much fun as it is delicious.

A heap of shredded cabbage and sliced pork went onto the griddle, chopped fine with two spatulas as it cooked. I shaped the filling into a ring and poured the batter into the middle. When it started to simmer, it was time: stir it all together in one go.

The smell of the sauce browning whets the appetite. Once everything was mixed, I spread it out thin and quick, then topped it with cheese, crunchy noodle snacks and a sprinkle of green seaweed. Monjayaki, perfect with beer, ready to eat.

You scoop from the edge with a little spatula, dragging it toward you and pressing it against the iron plate so it browns a bit and turns savory. Handwritten menus lined the wall, eggplant butter, onion butter, and bottles of sauce and soy sauce stood on the table.

Now then. The fun of monjayaki doesn't end there: dessert is made on the same griddle.

Spread the batter into a thin round, set a spoonful of sweet red bean paste on it with chopsticks, fold it over with the spatula and roll it up, and the anko-maki is ready. Cut into triangles, it was toasty, sweet, piping hot and delicious.

When I came out, the lanterns of the monja shop were lit, its storefront in the back alley plastered with photographs. Crates of beer were being unloaded from a liquor-store truck, and beside a utility pole hung the sign of Kishidaya, an old-style tavern.

Camellias bloomed against the evening sky. I passed a barber's pole turning in an alley and an old shop beneath a willow tree, heading for a shopping street with an arched sign. Time to shop for dinner on the way home.

Under the elevated tracks at Ueno, I passed beneath the Ameyoko sign. This shopping street runs about 500 meters between Ueno and Okachimachi stations, with more than 400 shops. Shoppers crowded around stalls of fruit and vegetables, and seafood laid out on ice.

Walking the streets of Ueno at dusk, I spotted the Tokyo Skytree at the end of an alley. I crossed an intersection as the signals lit up and headed home to the row house. One more Tokyo specialty for dinner.

Tokyo has plenty of specialties, but old-fashioned yoshoku, Japanese-style Western food, feels like one of them to me. Tonight, omurice. I chopped an onion, fried it with chicken in ketchup, then added rice and stirred it all with a wooden spatula.

I beat eggs in a bowl and poured them into the hot frying pan. A thin omelet wrapped around the ketchup rice, and a ladle of ketchup went over the top. I thought of that stylish era when Western and Japanese culture first mingled.

I cracked open a can and raised a toast to the Tokyo night. I hear that omurice was actually born in Osaka, but no need to be strict about it today. My spoon went in, and the ketchup rice peeked out from under the egg.

Tokyo, a city of deep flavor, where all kinds of people and things came together to form its culture. Tonight, like a true Edokko, I'll take a hot bath. An old soft-drink advertisement still showed on the fogged bathroom mirror. Night deepened over the row house, its windows glowing through the reed blinds.