Tucked away in a quiet residential corner of Kunitachi, I-fanfunsun is a Chinese restaurant that doesn’t look to make a fuss. But word travels—sometimes faster than you’d think. From central Tokyo to far-off prefectures, curious diners and seasoned chefs alike find their way here. All drawn by a phrase passed along in hushed, reverent tones: “You have to try this place.”

The owner-chef Shinji Suzuki describes himself simply as “a guy who just really loves food.” When he talks about cooking, something shifts―there’s pride in his voice, but also a kind of wide-eyed wonder. “I didn’t want to start somewhere I had connections. I wanted to open in a place where no one knew who I was.”

His culinary journey began humbly―part-time at a neighborhood ramen shop. After graduating from culinary school, he spent a decade at Rihō, the Chinese fine-dining restaurant at the former Akasaka Prince Hotel. He later honed his skills at Tōryū, an upscale spot in Kōjimachi, and led the kitchen as head chef at the renowned Sichuan restaurant Kenkaku. “I really wanted to learn Kenichi Chen’s cooking. So I joined restaurants run by his former apprentices.”

But long before any of that, there was a moment—seared into memory. “I was in second grade when I saw Chen on TV. Right then, I knew I wanted to work for him.”

He never did end up working directly at Shisen Hanten, Chen’s legendary restaurant. Instead, he took a job at the Akasaka Prince Hotel—its hiring exam happened to be first. As it turned out, Shisen Hanten was just across the street. Life, as it often does, had its own timing. While participating as a chef in a networking event organized by the Japan Association of Chinese Cuisine, Shinji finally had the chance to meet his idol in person.

He remembers watching in awe as Chen made his way through the banquet, tasting every dish on the table―seriously, methodically, leaving no corner untouched. “He had this presence. Not just in the way he cooked, but in the way he ate. A lot of chefs don’t taste their food. But at Akasaka Prince Hotel, and from Chen as well, I learned something important: if you’re not tasting, you’re not really cooking.”

Evolving Traditions: The Journey of Chinese Cuisine in Japan

The history of Chinese cuisine in Japan is as deep as it is layered. While Chinese influence on Japanese food dates back centuries, it was the opening of Rairaiken in Asakusa in 1910―serving ramen to everyday people―that really brought Chinese flavors into daily life.

After World War II, these dishes were increasingly adapted to Japanese tastes, and over time, a unique genre of “Japanese-style Chinese cuisine” was born―spanning from fine dining to machichūka, the beloved neighborhood Chinese diners.

Shinji recalls the early 2000s as a turning point. “When I was younger, nouvelle chinoise—modern Chinese cuisine served in a French-style course format—was gaining prominence thanks to chefs like Wakiya. That wave eventually gave way to something more traditional: big plates meant to be shared. Then came a surge of chefs who had trained in China. They brought back bold, authentic flavors, though still subtly tailored for Japanese palates. At Akasaka Prince Hotel, we cooked Chinese cuisine born in Japan—local reinterpretations of tradition.”

Another notable influence came from second-generation Chinese-Japanese chefs based in Yokohama’s Chinatown, including Tomitoku Shū and Hikonobu Tan. Their work in high-end establishments played a significant role in shaping the broader image of Chinese cuisine within Japan.

A decade into his own career, Shinji experienced something that would change his approach forever. “Hong Kong chefs used methods completely different from what I knew. In Japan, we used starch to thicken just about everything. But in Hong Kong, starch was barely used. Instead, food was steamed, roasted, baked―it was a revelation.”

That experience led him down a path he’s still on today: learning, absorbing, refining. And always, staying curious.

Among all the dishes he’s tasted, one stands out vividly: zhajiangmian, the simple yet unforgettable noodles he first encountered as a staff meal during his time at the Akasaka Prince Hotel. “A senior chef made it for me. I was blown away, I’d never imagined zhajiangmian could taste like that.” That memory is now shaping his summer menu.

Shinji’s curiosity doesn’t stop there. He’s also long been intrigued by tantanmen, the Japanese-style take on dandan noodles―a dish whose origins are often misunderstood.

“In Japan, we call the soupy version ‘authentic,’ but that’s actually a Japanese adaptation. In Sichuan, the original dandan noodles is a dry-style noodle dish―served without broth. One of Japan’s most celebrated Chinese chefs Kenmin Chen, Kenichi Chen’s father, popularized the soupy style in Japan because people weren’t used to eating dry noodles back then.”

“Many restaurants in Japan label their soupy dandan noodles as ‘masamune-style（正宗）’, borrowing a Chinese term that means ‘genuine’ or ‘orthodox.’ But ironically,” Shinji notes, “it’s still the Japanese-style version―not the original Sichuan one. That term sounds authoritative, but in this case, it’s kind of a linguistic twist.”

At I-fanfunsun, both styles are on the menu. Though each is gently adapted for Japanese palates, the restaurant is also a favorite among Chinese guests―many of whom come seeking a nostalgic taste of home.

“Cooking is never finished, the moment you think you’ve made something good, you come across a dish that completely changes your sense of what’s possible.” He pauses, then adds, “There’s a phrase I like—onko chishin (温故知新). It means learning something new by revisiting the old. I think that’s what cooking is about: holding on to what matters in tradition, while always pushing forward. There are still so many Chinese ingredients, so many dishes, that haven’t made their way to Japan yet. I want to keep discovering them.”

Rooted in China, Growing in Tama

Shinji reflects on the early days of his culinary path, a time when the ethos of “steal with your eyes” dominated the kitchen. No one taught you directly. Recipes weren’t shared. Techniques were kept close.

But times are changing, and Shinji believes the future of Chinese cuisine in Japan lies in a more open exchange of knowledge. “If someone’s eager to learn—whether they’re new to the kitchen or just cooking at home—I want to share what I know. If I keep it all to myself, and one day I’m not here, then everything I picked up in China—the techniques, the flavors—it disappears with me. That would be a waste.”

It’s not just cooking that keeps him going. It’s the people. The late-night talks with chefs from across Japan. The study trips to China that shake up his routine. Those exchanges remind him why he started. They push him―not through rivalry, but through respect.

Shinji says, “The chefs I really admire, the ones at the top of their field―they’re generous. If you ask, they’ll show you. And they never stop learning. That makes me want to be better. I know it might sound silly, but… I want to be the best.”

With a grin that’s a little self-conscious but entirely sincere, he adds, “Whether that means being known as the best restaurant in the area or winning something someday―I don’t know. But for now, I just want to be the best Chinese restaurant in Tama.”

About Kunitachi

Kunitachi developed into a college town after Hitotsubashi University, a prominent public university, relocated from the city center in the early Showa period (1926-1989). The main street extending south from Kunitachi Station is called Daigaku-dori (university avenue) and leads to Hitotsubashi University. This street is also renowned for its cherry blossoms, with approximately 200 trees lining the avenue. Kunitachi was cherished by writer Hitomi Yamaguchi and musicians Kiyoshiro Imawano and Ryuichi Sakamoto among other well-known artists and writers.

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