Let’s Go Shopping in Japan… During the Tokugawa Shogunate Era in Edo
The Ritual of Shopping
In the very heart of Edo, on the bustling street of Nihonbashi, where the day began with the hurried clatter of sandals and the cries of botefuri street vendors, stood a shop that did more than sell fabrics—it created rituals. Just outside its entrance, from behind the carefully crafted noren curtain bearing the shop's name in calligraphy, came the subtle fragrance of the precious jinkō incense. The interior of Shirokiya did not resemble today’s shops—it resembled a temple devoted to merchandise. Customers did not browse goods on their own—they sat on tatami mats. This was the zauri system—a ritualistic form of service: the client remained seated while the seller, dressed in a black montsuki with the store’s white crest on his back, brought out sample after sample from the back. Chests were opened with caution—with due reverence for the goods. Each bolt of cloth was unrolled slowly, with a snap of the seller’s fingers against the wood as a gesture requesting focus (kata 型—the form—is not reserved for martial arts alone; it also exists in the art of commerce). Among the customers were elderly samurai selecting obi sashes for formal hakama; merchant wives from Nihonbashi accompanied by maids with shopping lists; and young women in dark komon from teahouses negotiating prices on credit. Shopping at Shirokiya was not an activity—it was an experience, a part of urban life in which taste and etiquette were just as important as price.
And it all began in 1662 with a young boy from the province of Ōmi, who had spent years working as an assistant in the timber trade in Kyoto. His name was Ōmura Hikotarō, and he had neither fortune nor connections—only unyielding patience, a good memory for names, and a sharp sense for business. When he arrived in Edo, he rented a stall barely one and a half bays wide and began selling komamono—everyday sundries. Over time, his little shop grew, prospered, and eventually moved to the most prestigious street in the city—the zero point of the entire Tokugawa shogunate’s Japan, from which all distances in the country were measured. His humble stall became one of the three greatest department stores of the era, alongside Mitsukoshi and Daimaru. Shirokiya grew along with Edo—the largest metropolis of the 19th-century world.
The later history of Shirokiya is a story of Japan itself—of a country capable of merging the old with the new without losing the original spirit of “Japaneseness.” It survived fires, reforms, wars, and entire eras. During the Meiji period, it built a modern three-story department store with tea salons, an elevator, and an all-female orchestra. After the war, SONY was born in that same building. And then, in the 1950s, the brand crossed the ocean—to Honolulu, where for decades it remained a living fragment of Japan for tourists and the diaspora. Eventually closed in 2020 due to the pandemic—after 358 years—it became not just a story of commerce but a memory of a world where things were sold with the same reverence with which they were made and worn. It may have been just a shop, but I believe it is a legacy worth remembering—so let us now take a closer look.
A Scene of Shopping in Shirokiya
(18th-century Japan, under the Tokugawa shogunate)
It is a December morning, halfway through the Hour of the Hare (usagi no koku, 卯の刻, around 6:30 a.m. in European time), and the streets of Nihonbashi are beginning to stir. The fog rising from the Sumida River slowly yields to the light spreading across the cobbled street like warm silk. From a distance, one already hears the cries of hawkers: “Fresh miso! Straight from Musashi today!” “Katsuo-bushi, finely shaved—perfect for broth!”—their voices mingling with the rumble of wooden cart wheels and the rhythmic tuning of shamisen held by itinerant musicians from Osaka, stationed at the canal bridge. Over all this wafts the scent of fermented soy sauce, incense from a nearby shrine, and the smoke of charcoal fires at food stalls. Edo is not asleep—Edo is already trading.
At the very heart of this bustle, along the main street leading from Nihonbashi Bridge—the zero point of the Tokugawa shogunate’s Japan—stands a wooden building with a wide, low structure. Its façade is covered in white lacquer, and above the entrance hangs a navy-blue noren bearing the store’s white crest—crossed axes (ono), the symbol of Shirokiya. A signboard made of charred hinoki cypress proclaims in elegant calligraphy: 「白木屋呉服店」(“Shirokiya Gofukuten – Textiles from Wu” – that is, “of the highest quality”). In front of the entrance, on a raised wooden platform, stands a young attendant in a happi (法被, a short, simple Japanese jacket), who bows deeply to everyone crossing the threshold. We enter the most important shopping center of Tokugawa-era Japan.
Inside, the dimness soothes the senses. It is noticeably warmer here, thanks to the hibachi (火鉢—ceramic braziers filled with glowing charcoal) evenly spaced throughout the shop. The paper shōji walls filter the light like a milky mist. The interior is scented with a blend of oiled hinoki wood, freshly starched linen, and sandalwood incense smoldering in a clay dish near the entrance (more about fragrance customs can be found here: The Japanese Art of Fragrance in the Warrior Life and Death of the Samurai). The tatami-covered floor muffles footsteps. Along the walls are rows of low shelves and closed chests filled with goods: bolts of silk from Kyōto, soft cotton from Izumi, colorful tenugui, ribbons, threads, fragments of patterned chirimen and komon. Everything is neatly rolled, tied with string, and labeled with ink-written tags.
Shopping here has nothing to do with haste. After being greeted with a deep bow, the customer sits by a low lacquered table. This is the zauri system—an old-fashioned, ritualized form of service: the client remains in place, and the seller, dressed in a black montsuki with the store’s white crest on the back, brings out sample after sample from the back. Chests are opened with caution—with due reverence for the goods. Each bolt is slowly unrolled, accompanied by the snap of fingers on wood as a gesture asking for focus (kata 型—the form—is not only a matter of martial arts but also of the art of trade). Among the clients are elderly samurai selecting obi sashes for ceremonial hakama; merchant wives from Nihonbashi with maids carrying shopping lists; and girls dressed in dark komon from teahouses negotiating credit prices.
In the air lingers the gentle murmur of softly spoken conversations. No one is in a hurry. The ritual of shopping is part of the greater art of iki—the Edo townspeople’s refined lifestyle, marked by elegance, simplicity, and understated charm. The transaction, though commercial, carries the marks of a relationship: negotiation full of allusions, glances, and half-spoken phrases. The client does not touch the goods without invitation, and the seller does not push the sale. Instead, he gently slides forward a bolt of silk and says with a smile, “This shade of purple has been popular in Asakusa this month.”
At the entrance, there is a table with teacups—a modest refreshment for wealthier customers. Here and there one hears laughter, sometimes a child’s squeal as the son of a rich client plays with a packaging string. Behind a semi-translucent partition in the back, women in gray aprons sew custom orders, wind cloth bolts, and fill accounting ledgers with brush and ink.
Shirokiya is not just a shop—it is a theater, a ritual, a social stage. The threshold of this department store is crossed not only by those who wish to buy something, but also by those who wish to experience its atmosphere. A merchant from the provinces gazing at exotic patterns; a young geisha hoping to catch the attention of a patron; an old woman asking for a sample of cotton to sew a new juban (襦袢, under-kimono garment) for her granddaughter—all of them belong to this world.
In 18th-century Edo, shopping was not an activity—it was an experience. And Shirokiya—one of its most refined theaters.
The Birth of Shirokiya
A Merchant from Ōmi and a Dream of Edo
The city swelled like a steaming pot of gohan—expanding in every direction, to the very edges—thousands of rooftops, the sound of hammers, and the songs of boatmen echoing from the Sumida River. The city of the shōguns attracted not only samurai and artists, but also people from the most remote provinces—merchants dreaming of fortune. Among them was a young man named Ōmura Hikotarō (大村 彦太郎) from the province of Ōmi—a land of lakes, rain, and perseverance. He carried no sword, but rather a soroban—his weapon was arithmetic, and his treasure was a memory for debts and names.
He began modestly—in Kyoto, as an all-purpose errand boy for a timber merchant. There, he learned how sugi wood smells, how to weigh planks “by the shoulder,” and how to identify a potential customer by the set of their eyebrows. But timber was not his destiny. In 1662, with a mental map of trade routes and a heart full of courage, Hikotarō moved to Edo and rented a tiny stall—barely one and a half bays wide—on a side street near Nihonbashi. It was there that Shirokiya Gofukuten was born—the “Shirokiya Fabric Shop,” whose name, written 白木屋, means “House of White Wood”—perhaps in homage to purity, or maybe out of sentiment for the pale timber where it all began.
At first, he sold only komamono (小間物)—everyday sundries: threads, needles, combs, cotton cloths. His shop was not yet the object of envious glances, but it had something that drew people in—courtesy, transparent prices, and precision in every gesture. Customers sat on laid-out tatami mats, and goods were brought to them from the back—according to the zauri system (座売り—literally “seated sales”), in which nothing was left in plain sight. Only the observant merchant, closely watching the customer, decided what to show and when.
Three years later, in 1665, he managed to move to Edo’s main commercial artery—Nihonbashi Street. This was already a significant success. It was like moving from the dark alleyways of a lower-class district straight into the lamplight of the city’s grand promenade. The new shop, with its wooden façade, wide entrance, and noren (暖簾—a curtain with the store’s name) bearing a white crest, became a symbol of modern trade in the Tokugawa era. Hikotarō expanded the assortment: from cotton textiles to silks imported from Kyūshū and Kansai, and later also chirimén (ちりめん)—luxurious crepe fabric, sha (紗)—light silk with a mesh structure, and aya (綾)—richly woven materials for court kimono.
In the decades that followed, Shirokiya joined the elite group of Edo san daigofukuten (江戸三大呉服店)—the “Three Great Fabric Stores of Edo,” alongside the powerful Echigoya (which would later become Mitsukoshi) and Daimaruya. Though competition was fierce, Hikotarō was guided by the principles he brought from Ōmi: modesty over ostentation, quality over excess, and relationships above profit.
Merchants from Ōmi were known throughout the country as quiet, hardworking people, faithful to the oath of sanjōri—the “three-way benefit”—commerce that brings profit to the merchant, the customer, and to society as a whole. Shirokiya was not just a shop—it was the story of how one man’s dream could transform into an institution that, for centuries, shaped the taste and daily rhythm of Edo’s inhabitants.
An Era of Transformation
From Textiles to Modern Retail
As the years passed, the rhythm of Edo’s streets began to change. The city grew not only in number but also in sophistication—and Shirokiya, though rooted for decades in the city’s traditions, could not remain blind to the whims of urban taste. It was the time of Genroku, an age of splendor, kabuki theater, boisterous entertainments, and emerging fashions that infiltrated the Nihonbashi district with increasing boldness each day. At the markets, people began talking about katamigawari (片身替わり—literally “divided body”)—fabrics with two different patterns on the left and right sides of the kimono, worn by fashionable townspeople whose style was imitated even by lower-ranking samurai. In response to this fashion storm, Shirokiya began to experiment: it imported yuzen-dyed silks from Kyoto, acquired unusual chiryu (crepe fabric) patterns, and at one point even introduced something entirely new—ready-to-wear clothing sets for women of higher status, complete with matching obi, juban, and accessories—a full ensemble. To buy an entire outfit “at once,” without needing to have it sewn? At the time, it carried the scent of extravagance and modernity.
But Edo was also a city of uncertainty. When a great fire consumed part of Nihonbashi in 1788, Shirokiya lost one of its warehouses. It had previously survived Sumida’s floods and a price rebellion among petty merchants, but this time the wounds ran deep. The clientele had grown poorer—and it was no longer about fashion, but about survival. The Kansei reforms, imposed by the shogunate, struck a blow to the luxury trade. Bright colors were banned, and samurai were forbidden from displays of opulence. Shirokiya’s merchants began arranging their fabrics in more subdued shades, replacing vibrant embroidery with subtler weaves, and hiding silks beneath the counter, showing them only to regular clients. In those years, only those who could sense the shift in the wind managed to survive.
In the second half of the 19th century, in the shadow of the Boshin War and the fall of the shogunate (more on that here: The Republic of Ezo – A One-of-a-Kind Samurai Democracy), the social atmosphere became increasingly tense. Edo was transforming into Tokyo, and among its residents, there was a growing hunger for novelty, pragmatism, and Western influence. Shirokiya did not lag behind—it began considering a complete departure from the traditional zauri system, which required serving each client individually, seated. Inspired by the success of Mitsukoshi, which was already experimenting with open merchandise displays, Shirokiya also opened its own showroom—a wide, glass-fronted space with shelves displaying fabric bolts, boxes of fans, cases of semi-precious stones and cosmetics. Customers could touch, examine, and compare items themselves. It was a new way of shopping—more Western, more modern, more “Tokyo.”
The culmination of these transformations came in 1903 with the opening of Shirokiya’s new, three-story building. A red-brick façade, Western-style windows, the merchant’s crest painted with a golden outline. Inside—a tea salon on the upper floor, a play corner for children with paper fish suspended from strings, soft chairs in the “ladies’ parlor,” and a novelty: music played from a gramophone, later from a speaker system. The first elevator was installed—operated by a smiling hostess in a modern uniform. On Sunday afternoons, families came not only to shop but also just to stroll through Shirokiya no biru—“the Shirokiya building,” which had become a symbol of style, comfort, and dreams of a new world.
From the place where once handkerchiefs, combs, and cotton sashes for hakama were sold, Shirokiya had transformed into an institution of modernity—a store not just of goods, but of the promise of a better life. It still faintly carried the scent of incense from the old days, but the chime of the doorbell was now unmistakably modern.
A Fateful December Morning
It was a December morning in 1932 when, in Tokyo’s Nihonbashi district—the commercial heart of the capital—a day filled with festive preparations began. Decorated with garlands, scented with pine needles and the glow of colorful bulbs, the eight-story Shirokiya department store was getting ready for its grand December sale. Inside, in the toy section on the fourth floor, a shop assistant noticed a spark—a tiny flash from the power cord of a Christmas tree light. An innocent impulse that, within minutes, turned a festive scene into a nightmare.
The fire instantly consumed the plastic, highly flammable celluloid toys. The open stairwell—a hallmark of modern architecture—acted like a chimney, sucking smoke and flames upward. Soon, the top four floors were completely cut off. The fire ladders could not reach that high. A tragedy was unfolding.
Around eighty women—salesclerks and customers—were trapped on the roof. An urban legend, still alive today, claims that many of them refused to jump into the nets held by firefighters, fearing disgrace—unwilling to appear exposed if the wind were to lift their garments (they were wearing traditional kimono without modern undergarments). According to the popular version of this tale, it was as a result of this tragedy that Japanese women supposedly began wearing Western-style underwear. Is it true? Likely not, but the myth has endured. Historians such as Inoue Shōichi point out that most women were rescued, and the dramatic account of heroines literally “burning with shame” was crafted for Western media in search of exotic sensations.
In the end, 14 people died in the fire, and 67 were injured. Yet the echo of this tragedy resonated louder than any advertising campaign—becoming one of the most remembered events in the history of Japanese commerce. Shirokiya had already been known for innovation: introducing modern window displays, seasonal showcases, girl orchestras, and fashion shows. It was a store that not only sold goods, but created urban lifestyles—with music, performances, and cultural events. It was there that women could first enjoy tea in an air-conditioned parlor upstairs and view European porcelain in an exhibit resembling an art gallery.
After World War II, destroyed and rebuilt, the Shirokiya building found new life in the most unexpected form. Inside it, the company Totsuken—Tokyo Tsūshin Kōgyō—was born, which later transformed into… Sony. It was there that engineers Masaru Ibuka and Akio Morita developed the first electronic devices in postwar Japan, laying the foundation for a future electronics empire.
Despite this extraordinary legacy, Shirokiya could not withstand competition with the dominant Mitsukoshi—another long-established mercantile powerhouse. In the 1950s, it was acquired by the Tōkyū Corporation, marking the end of the era of an independent Shirokiya. Over time, its name disappeared from the Tokyo landscape—but the memory of it, of the kimono-clad saleswomen and that fiery December of 1932, survived as a fragment of the collective memory of Japan’s modernity in the making.
Hawaii, Nostalgia, and a Slow Extinguishing
In 1959—the very year Hawaii became the 50th state of the USA—Shirokiya spread its wings across the Pacific. In the heart of Honolulu, a branch of the Japanese department store was established, which quickly gained the status of a cultural embassy of Japan. It smelled not only of yakitori and green tea, but also of nostalgia for old Edo, filtered through the scent of plumeria and the rhythm of Hawaiian guitars. In the labyrinth of stalls, one could stumble upon miniature shrines, statues of the Seven Lucky Gods (more about them here:When the Gods Laugh Out Loud – Japan’s Shichifukujin, or Seven Eccentrics on the Path of Lightness and Grace), calligraphy workshops, signs in kanji, and delicately handmade wagashi sweets.
Shirokiya in Hawaii became a meeting place—for the Japanese diaspora, tourists, and all those who longed to feel the spirit of a matsuri, even if only in an air-conditioned shopping arcade. When in 2001 the decision to close the store was announced, protests erupted. Senator Daniel Inouye intervened personally, and the employees—out of love for the brand—saved it, buying it out for a symbolic dollar. Thus was born Shirokiya Japan Village Walk, the final incarnation of the brand: a festive village with alleyways reminiscent of Kyoto, speakers playing enka music and festival chants drifting through the air.
But time was unkind. When the COVID-19 pandemic paralyzed the world, Shirokiya had to close its doors. A dispute with the shopping center's management ended in a lawsuit, and in 2020, the last light went out in the 358-year history of this remarkable institution. Yet somewhere, among the memories, the scent of roasted tea and the beat of a taiko drum still rise beneath the plexiglass roof under Honolulu’s tropical sun.
The Legacy of Shirokiya – What Remains?
Shirokiya no longer exists, but its spirit still drifts through Japan’s air-conditioned shopping galleries like the echo of a bygone era, when shopping resembled ritual, and the seller–customer relationship held something of the tea ceremony. The legacy of this place cannot be measured by a simple profit statement, years of operation, or the number of kimono sold. It is the story of how Japanese commerce learned to speak the language of modernity without abandoning its soul—from the sandals of an Ōmi merchant to the marble floors of multi-story depāto where not only goods, but dreams are sold.
The image of the department store as a theatrical stage of everyday life—where fashion, technology, customs, and art collide in a single space—is the inheritance of pioneers like Shirokiya.
The myth of the women in kimono hesitating to jump from the burning building for fear of exposure is now part of urban folklore that says more about our imaginations than about historical fact. But like all legends, it endures because it touches on the core of cultural tensions—between tradition and progress, modesty that is prudent, and modesty that becomes fatally excessive.
Rivalry with Mitsukoshi? From the perspective of Nihonbashi’s streets, it now resembles a clash of giants—but also a subtle contrast between two visions of Japan: one that changes like a kaleidoscope, and one that changes slowly. Shirokiya has vanished, but its crest can still be found in Hiroshige’s ukiyo-e, smuggled into the landscapes of city life. It lives on in corporate archives, in the letters of former employees, in the scent of incense that, for a brief moment, rises above a yukata stall.
It may have been just a store—but I believe it is a legacy worth remembering.
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"Strong Japanese Women"
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未開 ソビエライ
An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)
Personal motto:
"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)
Mike Soray
(aka Michał Sobieraj)
未開 ソビエライ
An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)
Personal motto:
"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)
Mike Soray
(aka Michał Sobieraj)
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