Several customers have already gathered at the yatai’s plastic flap-cum-door by the time Shigeru throws it aside, grunting a welcome. Shuffling back behind the counter of roughly hewn timber, sat atop screwed together beer crates, and gesturing toward the line of small plastic stools in front, he blatantly ignores his guests’ salutations and enquiries as to his health, as most of them are locals and been coming regularly their entire lives. He doesn’t have time to waste in idle chit-chat. He has work to do. He’s already late setting up, and for the first time in many years. Shigeru has a lot on his octogenarian’s mind, and the grilling of yakitori is a little further to the rear of it this evening.

Soon, his clientele will be swilling beer and feasting on the best chicken skewers in town, just as they have done for more than 50 years. However, they are blissfully unaware that by order of the suits at City Hall, and at the urging of a few newcomers to the area, Shigeru’s shabby but fine establishment is being forced to close its flaps for the last time, this very night.  Once an essential chord in the rhythm of this old Kyoto neighborhood, with its gaily colored lights and bonhomie, it seems it no longer has a home here. Instead, a simple concrete box will be taking its place.

A little after 11.00 pm, Shigeru, having shooed the last of the drinkers out into the dark, throws back the remnants of his shochu from his favorite glass. Switching off the generator, he turns both the gas cannisters on full and slips out through the flap, pausing only to lob the flaming, gasoline-soaked towel from his hand, back into ShigeruLand. One last act of defiance to soothe an aching heart.