I was raised in the port of Kobe—one of the first Japanese cities to pry its doors open to foreign trade, circa 1867—where the triumphant honks of docking ships regularly punctuated my evenings. In transit, the vessels fueled up on Kobe water, abound with minerals from the city’s statuesque Rokko Mountains, proven to retain freshness despite long and arduous transcontinental voyages.
It’s the calcium and potassium enriched water, known to locals as miya mizu, that lends a sublime flavor to the aromatic mugs of coffee served at my favorite city café, Nishimura. When it was first established post WWII, the café began as a humble, provisional goods store, sandwiched between shell-shocked buildings in 1948. Situated steps away from Ijinkan, a brick laden neighborhood that was designated for foreign settlers in the late 19th century, Nishimura constantly emanates a tart and smoky scent, eager to transform even a nonchalant passerby into a connoisseur. When I visited the cafe on a recent trip home, my conversation with the store's VP (his voice dipped, almost reverently when discussing the drink) taught me that prior to Nishimura's existence, locals once drank coffee pressed from soy beans.
The café’s cosmopolitan menu, second in worldliness only to the map of the world that’s displayed inside, (crafted entirely from coffee beans) touts ten roasts, ranging from the rich and weighty Kenyan Peaberry to the milder Brazilian Bahia Santos. Nishimura’s signature blend, however, is a collection of approximately six bean varieties—a carefully guarded proprietary secret—combined to create a nutty mélange. Other sip-worthy drinks include a sinfully creamy Vienna Coffee and my personal favorite, the Nishimura cappuccino, frothed to perfection, topped by an earthy, cinnamon bark. And then there’s the food. Pillowy wedges of toast, filigreed with strawberry jam, decadent German cherry chocolate cake, and a range of gem-toned parfaits—edible testaments to Kobe’s mottled but vibrant culinary heritage, a checkered amalgam of France, Germany and certainly, Japan.
Nishimura has thrived mainly because of its remarkable ability to pick up on a major transition that Japanese food culture experienced in the 1960's, as it flowed from tatami mats to table-tops. This marked the advent of Nishimura’s highly westernized setto menu (literally, “set menu”), combinations of double-decker sandwiches, salads and gratins, all flanked by a bottomless cup of the original blend. Yet there is something distinctly local about one of the menu’s most popular items, Horenso Toast, comprised of 3 slabs of shokupan (fluffy, Japanese sandwich bread) layered with spinach, sautéed in generous pats of butter. It is this unobtrusive, culinary balancing act that will ensure Nishimura's survival as it continues to preside, quietly, over the city.
