Jim Reaugh
Google
This is what happens when a turn-of-the-century dream collides with reality and decides to just keep on existing out of sheer stubborn pride. Think Blade Runner without the budget—retro, a little gritty, nostalgic in a way you can’t quite place, like your grandma’s attic opened a yakitori stall.
The entrance sign promises a “New World,” and you know what? It kind of delivers. Not in the shiny, hyper-modern, AI-and-matcha-latte way—but in the form of red lanterns, shuttered shops, wild leopard print clothing, and a meat croquette stand that might just restore your faith in humanity.
It’s not polished. It’s not curated. It’s not pretending. There are closed shutters, aging fans, and signage that looks like it’s been hanging there since the Showa era. But there’s life here—resilient, unapologetic, and deeply Osaka. You’ll see locals chatting, bargain shoes stacked like a sale bin exploded, and signs offering cleaning services next to tiger heads on a clothes rack. There’s a store called “Dragon Coffee” and another that seems to sell only melon bread and nostalgia.
And that’s the charm. It’s weird. It’s raw. It smells like fried magic. You feel like you walked into a yakuza-owned thrift store run by Studio Ghibli characters in retirement.
I’m going back tonight. Because I need to know what happens here when the sun goes down. Does it light up like a lantern-lit fever dream? Do the tigers come alive? Is Dragon Coffee still open? Stay tuned.