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About Kobe

So, picture this: crusty old joint, smelled like regret and cheap bourbon. Guy at the door, missing teeth, grinning like he’s in on the joke. Inside, girls loungin, all “look at me,” but their eyes? Dead. Like Penny Lane faking it for the band, “You’re too sweet for rock’n’roll.” Made me mad—why sell your soul for a buck? But then, who am I, judgin? I’m no saint, just a cripple with a cane and a mouth.

Evolution of Japanese Brothels

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First stop, I hit up the local market on Kōen-dōri. It’s buzzing! Fresh fish, fruits, and all that jazz. I’m sniffin’ around, and OMG, the smell of grilled yakitori hits me like a freight train. I’m drooling, like a total mess. I grab a skewer, and it’s like heaven in my mouth. But then, this dude bumps into me. Like, c’mon man, watch where you’re going! I spill my yakitori all over my shirt. Ugh, so mad!

This Japanese City Is the Birthplace of Miso Ramen — and Its Best Spot Is in a Tiny Lantern-lit Alley