At dusk, the bars and restaurants that crowd the underside of the tracks at Yurakucho Station come alive.
Lanterns flicker on, sign boards are propped up on the sidewalk, and charcoal grills are lit.
The patrons stream in from every direction. Dark-suited professionals arrive from the office blocks to the north and west alongside curators of fashion and culture from Ginza to the south, and workers from the last of the mom and pop operations in Hatchobori join from the east. Even executives from Marunouchi, who could easily afford a high-end sushi dinner, often opt for a weak plastic stool, a mug of beer and a plate of something cheap under the tracks.