The ikebana alcove in the clattering, bustling train station; the Shinto shrine on the roof of a high-rise office building; a bonsai pine outside a garish love hotel: Tokyo throws up juxtapositions of this unlikely sort at every turn. So it comes as no surprise whatsoever to find contemporary ryori at its most stylish and serene, right behind a grimy gas stand.

Like all of the best restaurants, Banrekiryukodo is far more than just a filling station for the appetite; it is a haven for the spirit. Passing through the gateway and into its pocket-size garden, you leave the grubby banality of the street behind. Stepping stones guide you across a miniature sea of pebbles, past a dwarf maple and a stone tank of koi. The heavy wooden door seems to float in a wall of spotless glass. Slide it open and immediately you are ensconced.

At first glance, Banreki (for brevity's sake, let's abbreviate that unwieldy name) seems no larger than the average dining bar. A tremendous counter of polished wood -- cut from a single akamatsu pine -- runs the entire length of the long, low room. It is set with a dozen places, though it's big enough to seat 20. There is no bar to look at, no open kitchen, no decoration at all, in fact, save for a small display of subtly lit ceramics and lacquer tableware.