Hata-ke

In Japan, welcome finds form through subtle and often imperceptible acts. A light switched on just before arrival, tea gently set down at a precise angle, a purchase precision-wrapped and carried to the door. For the visitor, enveloped in the glow of these gestures – the bow, the warm towel, the heightened attention – it is easy to feel the grace of hospitality as something offered selflessly, without expectation.

Yet to accept it at face value is to miss its essence. Beneath the polished motions that carry hospitality through the city lies a layered dialectic – shaped by hierarchy, context and centuries of unspoken codes. The guest who pays attention begins to sense it: below the surface lies another temperament.

Beyond etiquette, Japanese hospitality encodes a way of being. The term ‘omotenashi’, approximately translating to ‘no front or back’ – indicating transparency and authenticity – speaks to an open, sincere form of care so attuned that no request needs to be voiced.

The roots of ‘omotenashi’ reach into the tea ceremony, whose every movement is intentional, from the choice of cup to the placement of a single ‘wagashi’ sweet. Codified by tea master Sen no Rikyū in the 16th century, the ceremony embodies the ideal of ‘ichi-go ichi-e’ – one encounter, one moment, never to be repeated. In this setting, hospitality becomes a philosophy: everything matters. The guest who begins to notice what is unsaid moves closer to the centre.

Nowhere is this dynamic more present than in Kyoto, the former imperial capital from 794 to 1868 and still today a keeper of Japan’s cultural treasures. For all its surface beauty, Kyoto does not give itself away. Something remains out of reach. Behind immaculate surfaces are lives folded inward, treasures kept out of sight and histories passed through relationships built slowly over time.

Near the city’s centre, in a peaceful street once lined with merchants, a stoic façade draws the eye. Earthen walls in soft ochre are framed by dark timber, with fine latticework below and curved ‘mushiko-mado’ windows above. At its centre, an ornamental gable sits beneath deep tiled eaves, hinting at the significance within.

The façade belongs to a ‘kyo-machiya’ – a traditional Kyoto merchant house, rebuilt in 1869 after the original structure was destroyed in the great fire of 1864, during the twilight of the Edo period. While much was lost, the house faithfully preserves the architectural character of merchant residences from the late Edo to early Meiji periods. As with many ‘machiya’ townhouses, it was designed to accommodate both a shopfront facing the street and domestic quarters behind, encompassing an integrated life of business and home.

First developed in 16th-century Kyoto, ‘kyo-machiya’ formed the core of the ‘o-cho-nai’, or ‘two-side towns’ – closely bound community units comprising two rows of five houses. The head family, often the shopkeepers, carried the responsibility for the collective wellbeing and conduct of the group. Life progressed through adherence to shared customs, mutual responsibility and consideration.

That sensibility endures through Megumi Hata, who grew up in the house and lives there today with her nonagenarian mother. A 13th-generation descendant of medicine merchant lineage, Hata-san has made the preservation of both house and spirit her life’s work. She emerges silently from the residential quarters to greet us in the entrance way, her deep bow both offering and commanding respect. Demure, composed, with ageless skin and hair tied neatly back, she moves with steady poise – words thoughtfully and softly spoken; every motion deliberate. Her presence exudes balance and constancy, and deep-rooted values.

We are invited into the living quarters, a gurgling gas heater diffusing a radiant warmth from its corner. As we sit down together on square cushions placed on the thick, straw-coloured tatami floor, the room is still, touched by soft light filtering through the shoji doors. Hata-san shares the story of her family history, with measured ease. Occasionally, she pauses, and the silence speaks volumes.

Her gaze lingers on a sliver of verdant garden framed by the sliding doors as she describes how her ancestors established their business here in the mid-18th century, producing ‘Taishiyama Kiyōgan’ – a natural remedy originating from China, long relied upon to treat children’s illnesses. Now and then, she gestures gently toward the architecture holding us – the clean lines of the ceiling, an ancient chest – as if acknowledging the house as the keeper of her story.

As the business expanded, so did the house, creating space for both the family and their staff. Traditional in layout, this ‘kyo-machiya’ is notable for its scale – a 9m-wide frontage, 3m-high ceilings and the integrity of its original materials, maintained through the same steady routines that have always kept the house going – sweeping, dusting, mending – day in, year out.

‘Kyo-machiya’ like this one are now seen as vital yet endangered cultural treasures. New builds are no longer allowed, and efforts to preserve those that remain have become urgent. About two decades ago, there were some 47,000 scattered across the city, though for years their value went largely unacknowledged. Modernisation, land pressure and the push to build upwards saw many torn down. By 2016, there were thought to be a staggering 800 disappearing each year. It wasn’t until the Great Hanshin earthquake in 1995 that momentum for their protection truly began to mount. The quake laid bare the fragility of Kyoto’s wooden architecture, prompting a collective reckoning – and a newfound respect for what stood to be lost.

By then, this residence had already been designated a Tangible Cultural Property of Kyoto City – a moment that coincided with the death of the family’s patriarch and the end of the pharmaceutical business. In search of a future for both herself and the house, Hata-san joined a research group of ‘kyo-machiya’ owners exploring how to open their homes to the public.

Allowing strangers into a space shaped by centuries of etiquette was initially unsettling. Kneeling with perfect posture, hands gently overlapped, Hata-san speaks in hushed tones. Her words, like her gestures, are measured – nothing out of place. “Imagine someone you’ve never met suddenly opening your fridge, or looking into your bathroom,” Hata-san says. She compares it to the shock of seeing someone walk indoors with their shoes still on. The house is made of natural materials that demand diligence – thresholds not to be stepped over, fittings not to be leaned against, wet objects kept away from wood. Once, these things went without saying. Now, they must be explained.

She and her mother have found a way to open the house while preserving its integrity – limiting visitor numbers and keeping interactions intentional. “It was the way to make the house happy,” she says. “And if the house is happy, so are we.” For Hata-san, opening up was a way to keep the house’s spirit alive, and help others feel its presence.

The boundaries between commerce and home, formality and ease, the public and the private, remain in tension. In sanctified spaces, ‘omotenashi’ is not offered so much as it is negotiated, precisely and without hurry, through a delicate balancing of invitation and reserve.

For select guests, Hata-san prepares meals from family recipes, tethered to seasonality and regional knowledge. She hosts traditional cooking classes, guides school tours, and opens the house throughout the year to mark the many seasonal festivals of the Japanese calendar. In doing so, she gives new shape to the house’s original story – continuing its legacy of service through her own way of practising ‘omotenashi’.

Hers is a form of hospitality shaped as much by instinct as by discipline – an alignment of inherited rules and intuitive care. For those invited, the experience offers a glimpse into something both deeply personal and culturally emblematic. In a city defined by thresholds and protocols, often imperceptible to outsiders, Hata-san makes space for something rare: an inner view of Kyoto’s hospitality culture at its most distilled.

As with any meaningful encounter, it also asks something of the guest. To be informed, attentive, respectful, present. In this light, ‘omotenashi’ reveals itself not as self-effacing service, but as a relationship. A mutual attunement, an unspoken dialogue. It is an act of shared regard, shaped not just by what is given but by how it is received.

“To welcome someone means to receive them in a perfectly prepared space,” Hata-san explains. “There’s a certain feeling about it.” She acknowledges that it can be difficult for visitors to suddenly understand these rules. But to her, the essence of ‘omotenashi’ is simple: “how much preparation the person receiving the guest has made, and approaching the visit with that in mind.”

The guest, too, plays a part. “The host imagines how to make the guest feel comfortable and prepares accordingly,” she continues. The visitor equally anticipates the host’s preparations in timing their arrival. “It's really about both sides, both parties having a caring feeling for each other; being considerate. It’s from both perspectives; a feeling of empathy.”

On a fresh spring afternoon, eyes adjusting to the gentle sunshine, we are invited to step through the battened sliding door and duck beneath a low timber beam into the open-air entranceway. The change in atmosphere is profound, almost reverential. A stillness settles. Goosebumps rise on our arms in response to the cool air – or perhaps to the lingering presence of those who have passed before. The faint scent of wood lingers and our breathing deepens. Underfoot, the stone floor is worn smooth by generations of footfall. A round stone sculpture at the threshold bears the kanji for ‘matsu’ – pine – considered the most prestigious of trees in Japanese culture, a symbol of dignity and endurance.

High on the wall, slender ceramic placards advertising ‘Taishiyama Kiyōgan’ bring a flash of canary yellow contrast to the deep brown of the wooden walls. “It’s like the know-how of Kyoto people’s interactions is embedded within the building,” Hata-san notes. “Information, trade, people – all of it gathered here. The ‘machiya’ style emerged from that intensity. I think of it as a form of wisdom, handed down by families living on this land for generations, as a way to protect life and livelihood.”

Strict rules preserve the balance of this home. After removing our shoes and placing them neatly on the smooth stone floor – toes pointing outward – we step up onto the raised tatami of the entrance wing. Ahead, a large ‘noren’ hangs. A single kanji character in cream stretches across a deep brown fabric divider, bearing the house’s name. Its presence marks a threshold – the line between host and guest, public and private, the intensely personal and cultural norms.

These tensions are inscribed in the house’s layout. “That’s a kind of boundary line,” Hata-san notes of the ‘noren’. “Beyond that is private. It’s a sign that says, ‘Don’t peek back here’. We keep the business facing the front and the private life in the back, clearly separated. By doing this, we protect our private lives. This custom has been passed down as a rule within this building.” To be invited into Hata-san’s private living quarters – spaces once accessed only by family and trusted company – is a rare honour.

The residence exemplifies the ‘omoteya-zukuri’ front storehouse style common among merchant houses. Long and narrow, these buildings earned the nickname ‘eel’s beds’ for their slender proportions. A typical floor plan unfolds gradually from the street-facing storefront into living quarters behind, with two compact courtyard gardens – for guests at the front, for the family in the private quarters – bringing in light and air.

Crisp sunlight filters through green foliage and settles on the polished wood floorboards. A cool breeze moves through the space. Our attention is drawn to the ‘tokonoma’ alcove, where a spindly arrangement of red ‘boke’ buds catches the eye. Plucked fresh from the garden, their irregular form reflects the principles of ikebana – asymmetry, impermanence and restraint.

“I always try to place flowers at the entrance,” Hata-san says. “It’s something my mother and I both enjoy. I might not even think of it as being for the guests. The entrance is a shared space – it doesn’t feel right without something there.” For her, ‘omotenashi’ is about practice, not performance. A way of keeping the home attuned to itself. What supports the guest also supports the life of the house.

Inside the living area, the palette is textural and subdued: tawny sand walls, fawn tatami, dark mahogany, woven burnished bamboo. Two small pendant lamps hang from the ceiling, each with a differently shaped milky ceramic shade.

Furnishings are sparse and symbol-laden. A seasonal scroll hangs in another ‘tokonoma’. The ‘chigaidana’ shelving system – a modular arrangement of sliding-door compartments and open shelves – emerges uncluttered from the wall. This traditional design, typical of ‘kyo-machiya’, inspired French architect and designer Charlotte Perriand’s ‘Nuage’ shelves, developed during her time in Japan in the 1940s. At the rear of the home, a solid low dining table rests before the shoji screens, its lacquered surface catching light from the garden beyond.

Composed to reflect time and season, the natural space is integral to the architecture. Solid stone water basins – ‘chōzu bachi’ – offer vessels for handwashing, gently pouring cool water from a bamboo ladle. A squat Japanese maple spreads over smooth stepping stones. Hata-san tends to the moss each morning, plucking stray blades of grass by hand.

As the breeze moves through the leaves, it scatters flickering shadows across the wall – an image that echoes the sensibility described by Jun'ichirō Tanizaki in ‘In Praise of Shadows’, his 1933 meditation on Japanese aesthetics, which describes a beauty that emerges from depth and transience.

We’ve been invited to witness Hata-san prepare a spring meal in her distinctive style – simple, nourishing and highly seasonal. It brings together family recipes and more recent creations, each shaped by the subtleties of Japan’s micro-seasons. Herbs and vegetables are used at their peak, and cooking methods change weekly depending on their stage of growth. “In cooking, all of my actions are an extension of what I experienced at home,” she mentions.

At the crest of spring, as sakura petals begin to fall and bamboo shoots emerge, the meal celebrates early seasonal freshness. Hata-san moves deftly through the warmly lit kitchen. The nutty scent of sesame rises from a small stone mortar. On the gas stove, dashi made from katsuobushi and kombu simmers gently beneath a bamboo lid, a chopstick wedged under its edge to let the air move.

Slabs of fresh karei fish – Japanese flounder – rest nearby, alongside green beans, spring onions gleaming white, and sprigs of fresh sanshō – so young they need no pickling. Later in the season, Hata-san will preserve them in soy, but for now their perfume is enough. Cooking moves with the season, and she follows its lead.

Having been invited to take our place, we kneel on cushions around the low table. Four courses are brought out one by one, the timing of their presentation judged precisely. The first, ‘Nanahana no shiraae’ – canola flower dressed in Hata-san’s grandmother’s sesame and soy sauce – arrives in a delicate white trapezoid bowl. A single young sanshō leaf rests on top. We bow our heads as we say ‘Itadakimasu’; a gesture of thanks – to Hata-san, the farmers, the soil.

Next comes a bowl of ‘Shintamanegi no ankake’ – potato starch in dashi broth with new onions – to be sipped without haste. The meal continues with a recipe of her own: shumai dumplings – soft clouds of pork and crab with shiitake and onion. Steam curls upwards, carrying the scent of sesame oil and oyster sauce.

Shiny lacquerware appears, its lids lifted gently to reveal the fragrant main course: water flounder simmered in soy and sanshō, accompanied by sautéed asparagus and butterbur with miso. It is accompanied by pearlescent rice cooked with ‘Takenoko no takikomi gohan’, young bamboo simmered with seaweed, and pickles made last December – Kyoto daikon and aubergine leaves, salted and pressed for months in a wooden vat using the centuries-old ‘nuka-zuke’ technique. Having silently stacked our empty dishware back onto her lacquered serving tray, Hata-san gently retreats from the table, her attention focused on our enjoyment of the meal. She quietly observes our first bite before slipping back into the kitchen, seemingly content.

The mindfulness Hata-san gives her cooking extends to her regard for the environment, both natural and built. The ‘kyo-machiya’ is preserved through steady daily maintenance, but its materials – “wood, earth, paper and grass” – are fragile, lacking the “robustness of stone, or modern chemical or petrochemical products,” as she puts it. “They require a lot of care, and they can be a bit of a handful in a way,” she remarks with a wry smile.

“Living surrounded by these kinds of things, you naturally develop a sense of how to handle tools and objects other than yourself, what we call ‘tekagen’, or restraint.” Hata-san sees a link between life in such an environment and what she describes as the “delicate” Japanese sensibility.

“You could say our sensitivity is rich. In a sense, we might be neurotic, but I feel that the environment of the materials – the environment of the home – has influenced the development of that temperament,” she observes.

Many original elements – polished wood, tatami flooring and earth walls – require specialist care. Shoji panels are all renewed annually. If something breaks, replacing it can be difficult. The ‘garasu-do’ glass on the panelled door that fronts the private quarters, with its subtly warped, watery surface, is no longer made. Losing it would close a chapter of history.

Just as important as preserving the house is preserving its spirit – a way of being expressed through ritual and repetition. The most routine of tasks are viewed as an integral part of a larger whole; the ordinary and the sacred are indivisible. Nature sets the tone, not only in Hata-san’s cooking, but in the house’s architecture itself.

As summer approaches in late June, fittings throughout the house are replaced to encourage airflow and regulate the temperature. Shoji sliding doors are taken down and replaced with lye-treated bamboo blinds; wisteria is laid across the tatami. Trees outside block the sun, casting dappled shade indoors. “The environment and people are living things,” notes Hata-san. “I think they both influence each other.”

Across seasonal flows, the calendar sustains the house’s connection to community and ritual. On 1 July, during the Gion Matsuri festival, the whole town is transformed into a shared space of celebration. This residence has longstanding ties to the festival as patron of the float dedicated to Shōtoku Taishi, a 7th-century regent credited, among other feats, with helping introduce Buddhism to Japan. During preparations, the home becomes the site of its annual assembly.

“Ultimately, it’s about cherishing this feeling in daily life,” Hata-san notes. “I think the changes in nature and people’s lives always go hand in hand like this. It’s a designated cultural property, but in this house, modern time flows and lives. People living in the present, through the flow of time, are here.”

Hata-san pauses, contemplatively. “I think that allowing people to enter a place where time hasn’t stopped is what keeps this house alive.” She believes its spirit can be felt. “Homes nurture culture,” someone once told her, and the words stuck in her mind.

True ‘omotenashi’ is not a one-way offering, we contemplate as we quietly slide closed the door, drawing shadow back into the house like a protective veil. It asks for presence, respect and attention. In offering the vessel of her family’s history to others, Hata-san brings nuance to the meaning of hospitality, suggesting a shared choreography premised on reciprocity and sustained by mutual respect. In a city and a culture that yields its layers with time, this may be our moment to cross the threshold.