Chikyu Masala – Spice, Sound & Six Seats of Mystery | MK Eats

Exit C5 of Shinjuku Sanchome Station, up the sweltering staircase and into the oppressive midday heat, you’ll find a small signboard advertising Chikyu Masala. It’s on the second floor of a building that could easily pass for an apartment complex. As I approach, a woman descends the stairs, satisfied and smiling, snapping a photo of the sign—a good omen for the flavor that awaits.

I climb the narrow, dingy staircase. At the top, an arrow points toward a plain door with a hanging sign that says open. No windows to peek in. Just hesitation and curiosity. I open the door. Inside: six seats, a single counter, and music that sounds like a mash-up between a 90s piano house anthem and a Sonic the Hedgehog bonus level, overlaid with UKG-style beats. I’m not sure if it’s old or new. Doesn’t matter.

Bare LED bulbs hang from the ceiling, casting a soft yellow glow. A welcome reprieve from Tokyo’s usual fluorescent assault. The clientele? Cool. Effortlessly so. One girl wears sunglasses that probably cost more than my rent. Everyone looks like they just stepped out of a creative agency pitch meeting or a zine launch in Koenji.

The space is about the size of a college dorm. A single woman runs the entire operation. I’m asked to leave my bag near the door to save space, then I squeeze past the customers and settle into a corner. Sparkling water with lemon is served—refreshing and free, an unexpected grace in the thick humidity.

There are three curry options. That’s it. Cash only. Take it or leave it. And once the plate arrives, you’ll know there’s no room for complaints.

Mine: Coconut shrimp curry served with bright yellow turmeric rice, sweet potato, beets, mango chutney, small pickled onions, and a soft-boiled egg to top it off, accompanied by a side of greens. Not Indian. Not Japanese. Something entirely different. A blend born of travel, intuition, and love. A spice route from someone's imagination.

The curry is perfect. Shrimp cooked just right. No soggy tails. A tight composition of color and texture. The music shifts to late-era Bob Dylan. No one flinches. No one speaks. Everyone’s in their own world, floating somewhere between saffron daydream and post-lunch clarity.

Posters on the wall urge you to see the world. To roam. To get lost. Everyone seems to be doing just that—mentally, at least. I watch them drift into reverie between bites. I wonder where she—this one-woman kitchen crew—sources her spices. I imagine far-off bazaars and unmarked alleys.

As the last bite disappears, I resist the urge to make a loud noise on the plate as I scrape my spoon for every remaining bit of flavor—or worse, lick it clean like the curry-loving dog I am.

Chikyu Masala doesn’t advertise. It doesn’t need to. This is the kind of place you’re either lucky enough to find or told about by someone who gets you.

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M.R. Lucas is a writer living in Japan.