Fugu in Japan usually comes robed in ritual: fixed courses, hushed rooms, price tags to match the poison's reputation. Miuraya, serving Asakusa since 1963, keeps the older spirit — the Edo townsman's verse ran "I want to eat fugu, but I want to live," and when they ate it anyway, they ate it casually. There is no course menu. You order wild tora-fugu à la carte: as much sashimi, as much hot pot, as many grilled milt as you actually want.
What you eat
Wild — not farmed — fugu bought each morning at Toyosu: paper-thin tessa sashimi fanned like a chrysanthemum, the bracing tecchiri hot pot finished as porridge, chewy skin salad, fried "spare ribs," and in deep winter the prize: shirako, the milt, grilled to a custard crisp — the reason regulars watch the calendar. Sumo men from the nearby stables are said to be among them.
The Noren View
Kannon-ura — the lantern-lit geisha lanes behind Sensō-ji — is where Asakusa's evening actually lives, two minutes and a world away from the tourist gauntlet. A winter night here, ordering fugu dish by dish at half of what a course house charges, is one of Tokyo's great seasonal experiences. Note the rhythm: the house sleeps all summer and wakes with the fish in September.
Who should go
Winter visitors (November–February is the season), adventurous eaters doing fugu for the first time without the formal-course markup, and anyone exploring the temple's back streets after dark.