My Kitchen, My Izakaya
My name’s Haruka Taneda. Born in Osaka, raised with steaming bowls and sizzling pans around me. My grandmother had this way of using leftovers and love to make meals feel like hugs. That stayed with me.
Years later, I found myself standing in a tiny kitchen in Singapore, halfway through slicing daikon, thinking, “I miss that flavor.” Not just the soy sauce and bonito, but the feeling behind them. The little wooden bars back home, where people smile over skewers, sip cold drinks, and forget the world for a while. That feeling sparked something.
So I started cooking. One dish led to another. People asked for the recipes, friends came over more often, and I began to write things down. That’s how this website was born, out of a craving for something more than food.
Why Japanese Food?
Some folks fall for spicy curries, others lean into buttery pastries. Me? I chase balance. I love how Japanese cooking holds comfort and respect in the same bite. A plate of tamagoyaki isn’t just eggs. It’s gentle care, folded layer by layer. Miso soup isn’t a bowl. It’s the warmth of home.
In izakayas, there’s no rush. Just time to nibble, talk, sip something light or something bold. Nothing fussy, nothing wasted. That’s what I want to share.
What You’ll Find Here
Yujin Izakaya isn’t a restaurant. Not a fancy chef’s blog either. It’s just me, my camera, my chopsticks, and plenty of messes behind the scenes. But here’s what I do offer:
- Simple recipes that feel real
- Flavors from Japanese bars, homes, picnics, streets
- Clear steps without fluff
- Honest photos, no filters hiding the burnt bits
- Some stories from my kitchen corners
Recipes range from beginner-friendly rice bowls to late-night comfort bites. Some take five minutes, some need a lazy Sunday. All come from the heart.
About Me (A Bit More)
My first memory in a kitchen? Dropping a whole raw egg on my grandmother’s tatami mat. I cried. She laughed. That was the first time I learned kitchens forgive. Maybe that’s why I never stayed away long.
I moved to Singapore about ten years ago. Love brought me here. So did curiosity. The mix of cultures, ingredients I’d never touched before, suddenly, I was cooking things I’d only seen in books, with neighbors offering pandan leaves, turmeric, lemongrass. I started blending ideas. But always came back to my roots.
Every time I cooked Japanese food in a different country, I realized something: it doesn't have to be perfect to be meaningful. Some things taste better with a little adaptation, and memories travel better than rules.
What Does “Yujin” Mean?
Yujin (友人) means “friend.” I picked the word not just for its meaning but for how it sounds, light, kind, welcoming. That’s what I hope this site feels like.
Imagine pulling up a stool at a counter you’ve never sat at before, and someone slides a warm plate your way. That’s what I want this place to be. No pressure. No need for perfect knife skills or rare sauces. Just friends sharing good food.
The Heart of Every Dish
I don't chase trends. I chase taste. The kind that lingers. I think every dish has a soul, and that soul comes from care. You can feel it in the way rice is washed, miso is stirred, or ginger is sliced just thin enough.
Some days I miss the slow trains back in Japan. Others, I miss the vending machines. I even miss konbini egg sandwiches, which probably says too much about me. But cooking brings me back every time.
Sourcing Ingredients
I get this question a lot: where do you find your stuff?
Here’s the truth. I don’t always. Sometimes I swap. If I can’t get shiso, I’ll use mint. No dashi? I make a quick broth. This isn’t a test. You’re not failing if you don’t own a bamboo mat or if your first tamagoyaki looks like a sock. We learn by trying.
When I do find good suppliers, I mention them. Some are in Tanjong Pagar. Others are hidden away in Chinatown. A few deliver. I try not to hoard secrets.
My Cooking Style
Honest. That’s the first word that comes to mind.
I don’t like fussy instructions. If I tell you to stir for two minutes, it’s because I did. Not because I copied someone else. I want you to feel confident enough to mess up, try again, taste as you go.
I use cups, spoons, pinches, and sometimes vague phrases like “until it smells right.” Because sometimes, that’s the only way to know.
Home Cooking Over Perfection
You won’t see molecular foams or tweezers here. This kitchen runs on soy sauce, sesame oil, and patience. You’ll find grilled mackerel with nothing but salt, or tofu that’s been pan-seared then drizzled with citrus.
Food here respects tradition, but doesn’t bow to it so hard that fun gets lost. If grandma made it one way and you found another that works better, I say write that version down.
What Inspires Me
- Rainy days and hot soup
- Lazy dinners that take less than twenty minutes
- Street food from Kyoto alleys
- Friends who bring empty stomachs
- Leftovers that surprise
- Spilled soy sauce on recipe cards
- Heat rising from donburi bowls
A Few Favorite Dishes
I can’t choose just one. But if you twisted my arm, I’d say:
- Agedashi tofu – crispy outside, soft inside, bathing in a light dashi broth
- Negima yakitori – chicken thigh and scallion, grilled till it sings
- Onigiri – any kind, but especially ones wrapped tight with love and seaweed
- Ochazuke – rice steeped in tea with pickles and furikake, best at midnight
- Nasu dengaku – miso-glazed eggplant, caramelized edges, sweet-savory magic
Why I Keep Going
Cooking gives me peace. Writing keeps me present. Sharing food stories reminds me there’s always someone out there hungry for connection. Every message I get, every reader photo of a homemade dish fills me with quiet joy.
I’m not chasing followers. I’m feeding moments. That’s enough.
You’re Always Welcome Here
Whether you’re here for quick comfort or something new to try on a Sunday afternoon, thank you for visiting. This place was built to feel like a friend’s kitchen, one where you can peek into the pot, ask a silly question, or just sit and smell the soup.
Cooking isn’t about perfection. It’s about care, curiosity, and maybe a little miso on your shirt.
Pull up a seat. Let’s eat.