by Ellen Rimkus

As part of our master’s course on qualitative research methods, we went on a small ethnographic field trip to Kantstraße to observe Chinese food culture in Berlin. Kantstraße is known as a hot-spot for East Asian restaurants with around 50 establishments in the area. We took a look at how different Chinese restaurants present and differentiate themselves.

We started Jade Palast. We visited the restaurant on a Monday evening. The restaurant has a very modern feel to it, with big windows and many wood accents on the exterior. Large signs inform potential customers from afar about the “hand pulled noodles.” Surprisingly, despite the warm weather and clear sky as well as the perfect time for dinner, only a few costumers were seated at the many on-street tables. The inside has a welcoming vibe thanks to its well-lit modern and clean interior as well as an open kitchen letting costumers observe the two chefs preparing the food. A look at the menu gave us a clear image of the food offered, thanks to its bright pictures. While all appetizers and noodle dishes bore their names in kanji as well, oddly, with the rice dishes they were missing. Interestingly, many dishes where clearly labeled with official vegan, vegetarian and halal labels. As for the choice of dishes, most seemed rather authentic.

Just a few meters down the road on the other side of the street there is Aroma. While the name itself barely hints at the origin of its cuisine the restaurants outside and interior more than make up for it. Boasting large Kanji next to its name sign and on the windows., the interior is what most people would expect of a Chinese restaurant: many red and gold lacer accents decorating the walls, red lanterns on the ceiling and large wooden tables with a rotating top in the middle. With a giant menu, it was rather surprising that every dish was listed in German, English and Chinese as well. Where the Jade Palace seemed to focus on a few key dishes, Aroma had everything one could wish for on offer.

Finally, we stopped at Lon Men’s Noodle House for Dinner. In stark contrast to the other stores on our tour, Lon Men’s Noodle House was bustling with customers. After waiting for about 20 minutes, we were kindly seated at two quickly assembled tables in front of the restaurant. Even though by far the smallest restaurant of the three, there was a steady influx of new guests and the waiters hurriedly tended from table to table. From the outside appearing like a small bistro, with the stores name both in English and Chinese above the entrance, on a sign it read “Noodle House from Taiwan”. Behind the small entrance stretches a long counter with an open kitchen, with more indoor seating towards the back. The left side of the entrance is decorated with a large picture wall, showing guests and staff alike. The interior is rather minimalistic, giving the feel of a small mom- and-pop shop. With possibly the cheapest menu, it was quite big, offering everything from soups, noodle and rice dishes as well as dumplings, all items listed in German, English and Chinese. A small note on the menu informed customers that all dishes are prepared spicy, but could be made non-spicy on request.

After studying the menu, we settled on a different array of soup, noodle and rice dishes as well as some dumplings to be shared. My “Tofu in Chili Oil with Pak Choy and Rice” was exactly what the name suggested plus a sweet thick soy sauce on top. The portion was a bit on the smaller side so I was happy to have ordered some dumplings as well. Both were incredibly flavorful despite being vegan, something that is not always available together. Surprisingly however, the dish was not as spicy as I had expected from the warning on the menu, so I added some more chili oil from the tray already on our table.

Talking to one of the waiters, he told us that the restaurant had been opened two decades ago by two Taiwanese immigrants and was still run by their relatives. Apparently not all staff are Taiwanese, but authenticity was a major concern of theirs. One key difference he noted, however, was the kind of meat used for most recipes. While Taiwanese cuisine values fatty meats for its rich flavor, in their experience, many Germans are not accustomed to the texture and prefer leaner cuts, which is what they ended up using at their restaurant. The waiter also told us, despite the popularization of Asian food in general, it remains difficult to obtain certain specific ingredients and even when they are available, they tend to be unusually expensive. When asked about the costumer- base, he stated most guests to be locals, however tourists also tend to visit, among them Taiwanese nationals as well. After finishing all of our food we quickly vacated our seats for the next costumers already waiting for a table.

Overall, our visit to Kantstraße showed that Chinese food culture in Berlin is far from uniform. From Jade Palast’s modern and carefully adapted presentation to Aroma’s more traditional visual aesthetic and Lon Men’s Noodle House’s emphasis on Taiwanese authenticity, each restaurant negotiates its own balance between tradition, authenticity, and the expectations of a local German audience. At the same time, our observations suggest that Kantstraße’s appeal lies precisely in this diversity: rather than simply reproducing Chinese cuisine, these restaurants create different interpretations of it within Berlin’s multicultural food scene. Kantstraße may therefore be considered a hot-spot for Chinese restaurants not because all its establishments offer the same experience, but because they demonstrate the many ways Chinese and Taiwanese food culture can be presented, adapted, and experienced in Berlin.

Ellen Rimkus is a student in the MA program Japanese Studies at the Freie Universität Berlin.

by Jasmin B. and Sayaka Y.

When walking through Berlin’s Japanese restaurants and cafés, “Japaneseness” is not always presented in the same way. Some places advertise themselves through words such as “authentic Japanese,” while others create a quieter sense of familiarity through food, language, interior details, or atmosphere. During our ethnographic scavenger hunt for which we visited different Japanese cafés and restaurants along Kantstraße, we began to notice that Japanese authenticity is not simply given, but actively shaped in different ways.

This question became especially interesting because we observed these spaces from two different perspectives: one of the authors is Japanese, while the other is German. Despite these different backgrounds, we both agreed that our first stop, a Japanese bakery, did not present Japaneseness in an exaggerated or overwhelming way. Instead, it felt like a balanced Japanese café, where cultural references were present but not forced. Taste was of course an important part of this impression, especially when thinking about whether the food felt familiar to Japanese customers. However, comfort also became an important point. Interior design, menu structure, smell, sound, staff background, and language use can all become implicit cultural messages. Whether intentionally or not, they communicate how a place identifies itself and what kind of customers it seems to invite. Rather than asking simply whether a restaurant was „authentic,“ our observations encouraged us to think about how different food spaces communicate Japanese identity, who they seem to address, and how cultural familiarity, commercial branding, and ideas of authenticity overlap in everyday practice.

The Japanese bakery offered a good starting point for these questions. Its menu included onigirazu, rice bowls, curry rice, bento, cakes, and mochi, as well as coffee and tea variations such as sencha, hōjicha, genmaicha, and matcha. Some sweets used flavors such as sesame, yuzu, miso, matcha, and hōjicha. At the same time, the café also included elements that fit well into Berlin’s café culture, such as vegan meal options, gluten-free rice cookies, alternative milk choices such as soy and oat milk, bright windows, plants, and a relaxed and cozy atmosphere. The result was not a space that simply “displayed Japan,” but one that combined Japanese food culture with a casual Berlin café environment. The interior reflected this balance as well. There was a small tatami-style corner, Japanese script on the wall, a bookshelf, plants, different styles of tables, and seats by the window. Our fieldnotes described the atmosphere as relaxed, bright, breezy, and good for conversations. Importantly, it did not feel overly “Japanese.” Rather than relying on strong visual symbols, the café created familiarity through smaller details: the smell of freshly cooked rice, the use of Japanese among staff, Japanese food culture in the menu, and a warm but casual service style.

Other restaurants along the route showed different ways of presenting Japaneseness. Fuwa Fuwa, although closed during our visit, already communicated a clear branding strategy from the outside. It labeled itself as “authentic Japanese,” had a colorful front, and offered recognizable dishes such as rāmen, okonomiyaki, gyūdon, udon, side dishes like gyōza and karaage, and even mochi, taiyaki, and melonpan as sweet desserts, which can only be ordered via a QR-Code. With German explanations of dish names and phrases such as “healthy Japanese lunch,” Japaneseness appeared here more explicitly through words, colors, menu language, and familiar food categories. Heno Heno gave another impression. From the outside, it appeared as a more casual and everyday Japanese food space, with rice bowls, udon, soba, onigiri, and vegetarian options. Its izakaya-style atmosphere suggested a form of Japaneseness less connected to trendiness and more to everyday dining. Kuchi, by contrast, seemed more modern, refined, and internationally accessible. Seeing both Japanese and non-Japanese employees there raised the question of whether a “Japanese” atmosphere is produced through staff, interior design, branding, menu, or a combination of these elements.

Through these observations, we began to understand authenticity not as a fixed quality, but as something constructed in relation to different audiences. A restaurant may feel “authentic” because of taste, language, interior design, staff, or customers’ expectations. At the same time, authenticity can also function as a marketing term, making a place more legible to those less familiar with the culture. Overall, the scavenger hunt showed us that even a short field visit can reveal many layers of cultural representation. While we originally approached the route with an interest in Japanese restaurants as workplaces and community spaces, the fieldwork also made us pay attention to how Japanese culture is displayed, translated, and felt in Berlin. Visual observation has clear limits: we could observe menus, interiors, language use, and atmosphere, but not how workers or owners themselves understand these spaces. Still, the assignment helped us see that “Japaneseness” in Berlin’s food spaces can be explicit or subtle, commercial or familiar, carefully branded or casually embedded in everyday details.

Jasmin B. and Sayaka Y. are students in the MA program Global East Asia at Freie Universität Berlin.

by Lara Schwenk

When people think of Japanese cuisine, besides the obvious sushi and rāmen, dishes like curry rice (jpn. karē raisu) or omuraisu might come to mind. Some Westerners might even think of the latter in connection with subcultures such as maid cafés and conclude that it is, in fact, a typical Japanese food. But how do Japanese people perceive such dishes? Surely, when they speak of going out to eat “Japanese food”, they are not referring to omuraisu, right? And yet, many Japanese restaurants abroad also offer it as an item on their menu. Could it be that foods are perceived to be “originally” from different places, depending on where you are in the world?

In a conversation about the distinction between Japanese food (jpn. washoku) and Western food (jpn. yōshoku), my interview partner, a student from Seikei University in Tokyo, explained that, according to her understanding, omuraisu was closer to Western food than to Japanese food. Still, it was clear that this dish represents some kind of in-between: she hesitated, expressing her uncertainty when asked to categorize it. Interestingly, she mentioned that there are two cafeterias at her university which are distinguished by the types of meals they offer. One serves more Japanese dishes, while the other serves more Western food. Though if the line between these two categories is blurred, however, one might ask how they decide on their menus and which options could be seen as surprising for Japanese and foreign students respectively.

This brings us to our next example: avocado sushi. My interview partner had never eaten Japanese food abroad, but our conversation reminded her of a show she had seen on Japanese TV. In this show, the concept of avocado sushi, which is common in Europe, was introduced to a Japanese audience. This surprised her and she recounted feeling torn at the thought of such a variation of sushi. The question was raised whether avocado sushi should even be called “sushi” and whether it is authentic, since this variation is not commonly available in Japan. After a long consideration, my interview partner expressed a cautiously positive attitude towards it, saying that, if this type of sushi will make sushi more widely known internationally, then she is okay with it.

This interview gave both of us the chance to reflect on our own perceptions of food and the varying degrees of authenticity of certain dishes. It reminded me of a curious example one of my Japanese friends had brought up in conversation a few years ago. There’s a cold noodle dish that is literally called “chilled Chinese” (jpn. hiyashi chūka) in Japanese, and many Japanese people believe its origin to lay in China. But as it turns out, in China, the same dish is called “Japanese style chilled noodles”. There are numerous examples of dishes from other countries where the origins are unclear and the lines blur, such as bánh mì from Vietnam or döner kebab from Germany. This shows that food is deeply interconnected with culture, and it is something learned through lived experiences. Depending on what we grew up eating and where we first encountered certain dishes, we might associate different foods with different places and even assume their origins. As food is such a highly personal topic, it can be great conversation material, as this interview has shown. So, next time you are sharing a meal with friends, it might be worth asking about their home country’s national cuisine or their favorite comfort food.

Lara Schwenk is a student in the MA program Global East Asia at the Freie Universität Berlin.