Mojiko: A Family Liquor Shop and the Re-Imagining of Old Things

Welcome! This continuing series on traveling in Kitakyushu now contains six parts. If you are new around here and missed any of the previous installations, you can see the full series here. Start with A Line, Between the Ocean and the Stars.

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We have one more night here in Mojiko. It is late morning. The wind — gently whistling its way through the shopping arcade — is the loudest thing going on in this part of town. Suhee and I are on the way to lunch, but as usual we are open for whatever else might catch our attention.

For a good few minutes, it’s just us and the wind, but as we come to an intersection, I spy a cute old sake shop — you would call it a liquor store back home, even though it is not really the same thing.

Honestly, we ought to get going to lunch before it gets too crowded. But at the same time, something makes us curious about this little liquor shop. I can feel Suhee hesitating too. Which direction to cross the street? Towards lunch, or the interesting old shop that for whatever reason beckons us.

I look at Suhee and then motion my head at the shop.

“Oh fine. Lunch can wait.” says Suhee.

We turn left towards the shop. An old woman stands in the doorway, chatting with a young schoolgirl. Liquor stores here are more of a community gathering spot. Inside this one is a little bar counter on one side, some chairs against the back wall by the cash register, and on the far side, a tiny convenience store with the basics — noodles, soap, incense, and a healthy collection of bottles in the back.

I learned from a recent essay by Sam Holden at Dispatches from Post-growth Japan, that these places are called Kakuuchi — local pubs that are like neighborhood living rooms.

Japan’s neighborhood watering holes

Now, the local drunks might hang out here at the kakuuchi, but so do the sobers. The scene seems more about being together with other humans than anything distinctly to do with alcohol. Hence the naturalness of a student — in middle school we later find out — hanging out here with her grandmother and the aged locals who sit in the chairs against the back wall.

Walking through the colorful aisle — there is only one aisle in the shop — the smell of incense, body soap, and old wood mix with each other. It feels nostalgic, though as an American I am not sure why. Investigating the bottles of whiskey in the back, I decide against buying one. Too heavy for now. We have just started today’s traveling.

Suhee meanwhile, has a box of ochazuke soup mix in hand. Very efficient. “Something to remember the shop by.” she says.

Suhee loves ochazuke.

This is the actual ochazuke from the shop. I made some this morning, along with umeboshi (dried, salted plum) from a batch we made two years ago. An amazing way to re-invigorate yesterday’s cold rice.

We go to the register. The old woman who was hanging in the doorway walks over to ring us up and we chat with her and the middle school student about the typical things, the weather, where we are from. The student displays particularly good English skill — probably better than my Japanese. The locals sitting on the chairs meanwhile also chime in “Ah, from San Francisco! I have fond memories of a trip there. Or maybe fond dreams. I can’t remember which.” They continue such banter, taking turns laughing at each other but really, more like laughing with each other.

Laughing is good medicine, they say.

As we turn to leave, the shop owner puts her hands down behind the counter and looks up at Suhee. She then reveals a small doll, reaches out, and clips that doll onto Suhee’s bag.

“It matches your bag.” she says, smiling and nodding as if this accessory had been waiting here for Suhee.

“Huh? Wow. It looks handmade.” says Suhee.

“It is! Actually, it’s a laundry clip, covered with old kimono fabric. Made by my mother.” Says the shop owner.

Suhee has an ‘aha’ moment, realizing that the bag on her own shoulder was made using old fabric, and that the shop owner picked up on this fact. This understanding starts another conversation between us and the shop owner, on how nice it feels to make old things into new things. The shop owner and Suhee both find a common love for instance, of making old kimono into coasters.

Transforming an old thing into a different, new thing is nice firstly because you take a piece of the past into the future, rather than discarding it. But at the same time, you are taking time to think and re-imagine that old thing anew. In this process, the old thing continues to be respected, useful, and relevant, even as its original utility comes to an end.

This ridiculously useful concept is found throughout Japanese culture in the everlasting quest not to be mottainai — wasteful — and it can be applied to far more things than just kimono fabric. Old tools. Old buildings. Old jobs. Old factories. Old methods of transportation. Old ways of thinking. Respect where they came from. Re-imagine them anew.

It’s a nice recipe for moving forward in this world.

After the talk, Suhee and I head to lunch. But we promise the owner we will come back to the shop the next day, before leaving for home. I am not sure any of us actually expects this second visit to happen. Yet it does, and when it does, we enter into a surprisingly emotional moment with the shop owner. This moment in turn leaves us reflecting deeply on our own values, and approach to life. But we’ll have to save that moment for next week.

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Question: The idea of respectfully re-imagining old things can be applied to so many areas of life — from personal belongings to the very structures of our cities and societies. What are some ways you have done, or imagine, doing this?

Next Week: This writing continues next week, as Suhee and I step into a different dimension on our return visit to the shop.

Another Story: During our years in Osaka, we enjoyed visiting another kind of old neighborhood shop. The kissaten. The following story from 2022, celebrates how kissaten — old neighborhood coffee shops — epitomize the fun art of ignoring what everyone else is doing.

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