It is dark and unlit, with a dirt floor and a single young man in old fashioned work clothes toiling over a cauldron in it. There are two bathtub sized containers near the front, one for soft and one for semi-firm tofu. I always ask for the soft kind, and the young tofu maker fishes dexterously for a delicate cube floating in water for me. 120 yen poorer, I cradle the still-warm mass home, and on this occasion, I covered it in chopped shiso, ginger, Japanese ginger, and soy sauce.
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