Hordes of single men, a citywide fire and a cursed kimono shaped how people dined out in Japan - that’s not a Netflix pitch; that’s the Edo period.
Setting the Scene: When Edo was a Fixer-Upper
At the end of the 16th century, warlord Tokugawa Ieyasu rolled into Edo, his new base camp.
Calling it a 'city' would have been false advertising: apart from a battered old castle and a few villages clinging on nearby, it was basically swampland. The area had been chewed up by war, the castle was too small to house Ieyasu and his sword-wielding roomies, and the whole set-up looked less like a castle town and more like a real-estate ad you scroll past fast.
But Ieyasu was nothing if not a long-game player. He knew that civil wars aren’t just won on the battlefield so he threw himself into urban development: a daimyo on a DIY streak.
When he became shogun in 1603, he finally had the ultimate power tool: the ability to order other warlords to cough up workers and lumber. Under his watch, Edo started to morph into the megacity that, in 1868, would be renamed Tokyo - a change that also rang the curtain down on the era.
But back to the early Edo period. About 50 years after Ieyasu became shogun, disaster struck: the city he had built was almost wiped out by fire. The Great Fire of Meireki roared through Edo in 1657 (Meireki 3), earning the nickname ‘Furisode Fire’ because, according to legend, it all started with a long-sleeved kimono.
After the three young women who owned the furisode died in quick succession, the head priest of a temple decided to burn it.
Chanting a sutra, he threw the kimono onto a fire. As he did so, the story goes, a strong wind blew up and the burning kimono rose, almost like a person standing. It flew up to the roof of the main hall, starting a fire that spread to the rest of the city.
Whether or not the garment actually went full dragon, the blaze destroyed about 60% of Edo, with the death toll estimated at around 100,000 - roughly a third of the city's population.
Edo wasn't one to wallow for long; the city swung almost immediately into rebuilding mode. Carpenters, plasterers and laborers poured in from all over the country - and they needed to eat.
Stalls and eateries sprang up all over Edo to feed both the itinerant workforce and the fire victims who suddenly found themselves homeless. Out of the ashes of the city rose a brand-new industry: dining out.
As part of the rebuilding, a few burned-out areas were turned into open areas to prevent the spread of future fires. While buildings were banned in these firebreak zones, small structures were allowed.
Stalls, street vendors and even portable theaters popped up in these spaces, turning them into places where Edo folk could eat, drink and forget that their city was basically kindling with plumbing.
But here’s the twist: the dining-out boom didn’t fade once the houses were rebuilt. It kept growing and here’s why.
First, the sankin kotai system. This was the shogunate’s way of controlling the country through corporate travel: daimyo lords were forced to maintain two households - one in the fief, one in Edo - shuttle back and forth with their entourages and spend so much on all of this that they couldn’t afford a decent rebellion.
These epic business trips also meant that the city swarmed with single men and married men a long way from home: samurai retainers who accompanied their lord and, after a while, started to look for alternatives to the fief canteen.
The second reason: Edo’s housing. Most townsfolk, including lower-class and laid-off samurai, lived in nagaya - row houses with tiny apartments that had a kitchen so basic it could barely manage rice without threatening the entire block with immolation.
Fire was the city’s worst enemy and amateur cooking was essentially arson with extra steps. Married households scraped by but single men? Whatever survival skills might have been covered in samurai training, cooking wasn't one of them.
Put all that together - minuscule kitchens, flammable housing, a surplus of bachelors, open-air spaces - and you had the perfect recipe for a dining-out industry.
Nara Chameshi: Japan’s First Lunch Special
The dining-out industry in Edo wasn’t just about quick street-side meals. From the start, it included both food stalls and restaurants such as izakaya gastro-pubs and 'Nara tea' eateries.
Some historians say Japan’s dining-out culture began with a Nara chameshi restaurant that opened in Asakusa after the Great Fire of Meireki. The house specialty? A temple-born rice dish that came bundled with soup and sides. This was arguably Japan’s first teishoku - a set meal before anyone thought to give it a name.
So, what was all the fuss about? Nara chameshi was a bowl of rice cooked in tea with roasted soybeans, red beans, millet and roasted chestnuts, bulked out with seasonal vegetables, seasoned with salt and soy sauce, and sometimes paired with clam miso soup. It was filling, nutritious and far less likely to set your nagaya on fire than cooking at home.
The dish got its start on the other side of the country in western Japan, where it was served in the monk quarters of Nara’s great temples, Kofuku-ji and Todai-ji.
Travelers who tried chameshi in Nara brought their taste for it back to Edo. After the fire, an Asakusa teahouse branded the dish as 'Nara tea', serving it with tofu and simmered vegetables on a tray. Edo people, who had an insatiable taste for novelty, flocked to try it.
But Nara chameshi wasn’t just a fad - it became a template for how Japan would eat out: hearty, affordable and served on a tray. All it needed was a grilled mackerel and half a sudachi lime.
The Four Heavenly Kings of Edo Dining
Four dishes emerged from the city's food stalls to be crowned the Four Heavenly Kings of Edo dining: soba, sushi, tempura and unagi.
Also know as the Four Great Foods of Edo, these celebrities have become some of the most recognizable faces of Japanese cuisine. Here's a closer look at their big breaks in the big city.
Unagi: The Eel That May Have Become Too Famous
Before 'Edomae' became shorthand for all things sushi, it referred to eel.
The waters of Fukagawa, lying just Edomae - in front of Edo - across the Sumida River, teemed with them. Eel from this area was prized and the name stuck - not only to unagi but eventually to fish and shellfish caught in the bay as well.
Eel cookery in Edo set itself apart from the Kyoto and Osaka style. There, unagi was grilled with soy sauce and served with sansho pepper.
Edo cooks, however, preferred to steam the eel first, removing excess fat before finishing it over charcoal with that signature sweet soy glaze.
The early 19th century brought another development: the invention of unadon, or eel rice bowl. Credit goes to Okubo Imasuke, a theater manager who loved eel but didn't have the time to go to an eatery.
His solution? Plop slices of grilled eel on rice and have it while watching a play. Thus was born one of Japan’s most enduring comfort dishes though, these days, pulling a steaming unadon out of your bag at the theater will earn you a swift visit from a disapproving usher.
Eel culture in Edo was also about experience. Many unagi eateries were located next to bathhouses. It became a custom to take a bath while your order was prepared, then emerge in a fresh yukata to steaming eel, hot off the grill. Bath first, unagi after: the ultimate Edo spa package.
Edo even invented an eel-based loyalty program. Customers could pre-pay for an unagi kitte - eel coupon - that they could redeem later or gift to someone else. The perfect present when flowers just wouldn’t cut it.
But while Edo’s love affair with eel shaped the city’s dining culture, that demand has left a shadow today. The Japanese eel, once abundant in rivers and coastal waters, has been severely overfished. Its population has plummeted so steeply that it is now listed as endangered.
So what’s a modern diner to do? Some restaurants are experimenting with alternatives - anago (saltwater eel), catfish and even soy-based vegan 'unagi'.
They may not be quite the same in taste and texture but they let us enjoy a bit of Edomae ingenuity without wiping out the species that inspired it.
Soba: From Survival Grain to Late-Night Snack
Cultivated since prehistoric times in Japan, soba could grow in volcanic ash, chilly climates and other places where rice struggled.
With only about 75 days from planting to harvest - nearly half the time rice needed - soba became Japan’s go-to relief crop in times of famine.
How was it eaten? In ancient times, the grains were boiled whole; by the Muromachi period (1336–1573), buckwheat was commonly served as mochi or a paste-like porridge.
Culinary texts from that era list noodles such as udon and somen but make no mention of soba, suggesting buckwheat noodles had yet to appear. It was only in the early Edo period that soba finally evolved into sobakiri - long, thin noodles you could slurp.
Wheat flour was added to stabilize the dough: a culinary hack some say came from a visiting Korean monk. With this, soba was ready for the big time.
And big time it became. By the 18th century - mid-Edo period - soba had gone from occasional gourmet treat to urban staple.
Some stalls stayed open till late, earning the name 'yotaka soba' - night hawk soba.
There are two theories for this. According to one, the name came about because the evening customers were mostly 'night hawks' - prostitutes who snatched a bite in between grabbing at the sleeves of passers-by to solicit clients.
The other theory suggests that 'yotaka' is a corruption of 'otaka-sho' - falconers, who warmed their hands at night with a hot bowl of noodles.
Either way, soba stalls and sex work became neighbors, both catering to Edo’s appetite for fast satisfaction.
Sushi: Fresh Fish, Raw Fish, Now
Not surprisingly, Edo's hunger for instant gratification extended to sushi.
Its earliest form, narezushi, goes back centuries and was essentially a preservation technique: whole fish were packed with rice and salt and left to ferment for months, sometimes years.
When it was ready, the rice was thrown away and only the fish was eaten - a triumph of patience and protein if you could get past the smell.
Later came namanare-zushi, a semi-fermented version where the waiting time was cut to weeks and the rice was still edible. But Edokko, famously short on patience, had no interest in waiting weeks - or even days - for their dinner.
So along came hayazushi - fast sushi - where the rice was seasoned with vinegar to mimic the tang of fermentation and the fish was marinated, simmered or pickled for quick use. Out of this culture of shortcuts was born the style that would take the world by storm: nigiri-zushi.
Credit for the innovation is usually given to chef Hanaya Yohei, who molded balls of vinegared rice topped with slices of prepared fish.
He added a dab of wasabi between rice and topping, serving two pieces at a time. His invention was revolutionary: sushi could be made and eaten on the spot, perfect for a fast-moving, fast-eating city.
Not everyone, however, was impressed with how popular and fancy sushi became. During the Tenpo Reforms (1841–1843), which slapped curbs on entertainment and luxury goods, Yohei was arrested along with some 200 other vendors for selling extravagant sushi.
Punishment was house arrest with iron handcuffs - a stiff price to pay for serving sliced fish on rice.
Even after the crackdowns, sushi thrived as an everyday food. Edo neighborhoods typically had at least one or two sushi vendors, often working from stalls. Prices were low, comparable to conveyor-belt sushi prices today.
Of course, modern sushi restaurants with the hinoki counters, the intimidating itamae and the Michelin stars also developed from those early stalls but the real connection between Edo and present-day sushi may be much humbler.
Kaiten-zushi and pre-packed sushi follow the same principle as the old stalls: fast, filling and affordable. So when you grab a pack of sushi from a supermarket or watch plates of nigiri trundle past on a conveyor belt, you’re basically dining the Edo way.
Tempura: Batter Days are Here
Tempura may be a global calling card for Japanese cuisine today but, in Edo, this Portuguese dish was commoner’s fuel.
In the city, tempura meant seafood from the waters of present-day Tokyo Bay. Vegetables got their own category (goma-age).
And because open flames indoors were a recipe for another Great Fire, frying was done outdoors at stalls, especially at bridgeheads where wide firebreaks meant lots of open space to fry in safety.
By the 1780s, skewered shrimp, goby and conger eel were being dunked into sesame oil and soy sauce at these stalls and sold to customers who ate them standing up.
Tempura went on to climb the social ladder. By the Bunka era (1804–1818), sit-down tempura eateries had appeared and, by the Bunkyu years (1861–1863), the ruling class was enjoying ozashiki tempura - a kind of parlor performance where chefs brought fresh seafood and frying gear to a daimyo mansion, preparing crisp morsels in front of the lord and his guests.
Dubbed daimyo tempura, it was the Edo equivalent of tableside flambé.
Tempura’s history is Edo to the core - born on the street, refined in the rooms of the elite and beloved everywhere in between.
Edo Obsessions That Still Grip Tokyo
By the early 19th century, Edo’s obsession with food had spilled off the plate and into print. Publishers began issuing restaurant rankings formatted like banzuke, the charts used to rank sumo wrestlers.
The effect was instant: a shop bumped up to ozeki status, for instance, would be flooded with customers faster than you can say 'Michelin'.
Naturally, the rankings were debated endlessly - who deserved promotion, who was overrated and whether the whole thing was rigged.
And it wasn’t just Edo. Kyoto and Osaka also published food charts, expanding the banzuke format to wagashi sweets, pickles, sake and even rice.
This culture of judging, listing and arguing about food never went away. In modern Japan, food shows dominate television, glossy magazines publish endless best-of lists, and bookshops devote entire shelves to gourmet guides.
And now, of course, the battleground is digital: a dish that’s Insta-bae - photogenic enough for on Instagram - can draw crowds to a restaurant faster than an Edo banzuke announcement.
The technology may have changed but the hunt for the best bite in town hasn’t.
Receipt from the Past
Run a thumb down the itemized bill of modern Japanese food culture and you’ll see the Edo period footing much of the tab: teishoku structure, Edomae technique and things too many to list.
What began as street fare for commoners and hard-up samurai matured into Tokyo’s most renowned eateries. So keep the soba, keep the tempura, keep the sushi - and keep in mind that every slice carries a little soot from a city that rebuilt itself and decided to eat well.