So you’ve been scrolling. You’re deep into your Japan inspiration feed, past the torii gates of Fushimi Inari, beyond the scramble of Shibuya Crossing. And then you see it. A glass, glowing with an almost supernatural, jewel-toned light. Inside, a vibrant liquid—often a shocking, synthetic green—is fizzing away, with a perfect sphere of vanilla ice cream floating on top like a tiny planet. A single, glossy, almost plastic-looking maraschino cherry sits there, a punctuation mark on a sentence you don’t quite understand. It’s a cream soda. But it’s not just any cream soda. It looks less like a drink and more like a carefully constructed piece of art, a liquid sculpture from a forgotten future. You see it again, and again. In different colors—sapphire blue, sunset orange, amethyst purple. Each one is set in a cafe that looks like it was ripped from a 1970s movie set, all dark wood, velvet banquettes, and amber-tinted light. You’re probably thinking, “Okay, I get it, Japan does aesthetics. But what is the actual deal here? Why is this simple, old-school drink having such a massive moment? Is it just a fad for Instagram, or is there something deeper going on?”
That’s the real question, isn’t it? In a country known for its forward-facing technology and hyper-modern cities, this sudden, widespread obsession with something so deliberately, almost performatively, retro feels like a glitch in the matrix. It’s a cultural phenomenon that’s as fizzy and complex as the drink itself. This isn’t just about a sweet beverage; it’s a portal. It’s a multi-layered story about Japan’s relationship with its own past, the power of nostalgia in a digital age, and the very specific way Japanese culture preserves, perfects, and re-packages its history for modern consumption. To understand the cream soda, you have to understand the soul of the place it was born: the kissaten. Forget what you know about minimalist, third-wave coffee shops. We need to go back in time, to a place where coffee was a luxury and sitting down for a drink was an experience in and of itself. This whole universe of meticulously crafted, photogenic drinks is a conversation with a past that many of the people enjoying them never even lived through. And that’s what makes it so fascinating. It’s not just a drink; it’s a vibe, a statement, and an escape, all served in a tall, elegant glass. Before we dive deep, let’s get our bearings in a neighborhood that acts as a living museum for this culture.
This deliberate nostalgia isn’t unique to cream soda, as seen in how the Japanese highball became a cultural time machine.
The Ghost in the Machine: Decoding the Showa Vibe and the Birth of the Kissaten
To truly understand why this glowing green drink feels so unique, you need to grasp the world it originated from. We’re referring to the Showa Era (1926-1989), particularly the post-war decades. This was a time of tremendous economic boom in Japan, marked by vast social transformation, rapid urban growth, and a strong influx of Western culture. Think of it as Japan’s version of the “mid-century modern” era, but on a nationwide scale. The atmosphere was charged with infectious optimism, a belief that technology and progress would usher in a bright future. Central to this cultural shift was the kissaten (喫茶店).
While kissaten literally means “tea-drinking shop,” this term doesn’t fully capture its essence. It wasn’t a cafe in the contemporary sense—a quick caffeine stop en route to work. Instead, it was a destination. A “third space” that was neither home nor office. In an era when homes were often small and crowded, the kissaten served as a sort of public living room. It was a place where you could sink into a plush, sometimes slightly worn velvet chair for hours, shielded from the city’s hustle outside. Interiors were intentionally crafted as intimate, escapist sanctuaries: dark wood paneling, ornate wallpaper, Tiffany-style stained-glass lamps emitting a warm amber glow, with classical music or jazz softly playing on a high-end sound system. It was an immersive mood. This wasn’t about minimalist starkness; it was about rich, textured, and almost theatrical comfort.
Within these spaces came a menu of aspirational Western treats. Siphon-brewed coffee, considered sophisticated and intellectual; dishes like “Neapolitan” spaghetti (a ketchup-based pasta creation) and thick, fluffy toast; and brightly colored, celebratory desserts like fruit parfaits and cream sodas. For the average Japanese person in the 60s or 70s, these were more than just food and drink—they were symbols, tastes of the affluent, Technicolor American lifestyle glimpsed in movies and magazines. The cream soda, with its startlingly bright hue, sweet fizz, and indulgent scoop of ice cream, epitomized this. It was a special-occasion drink, a treat—luxurious, modern, and purely joyful. It embodied the flavor of optimism. Every kissaten cultivated its own unique character. Some were meikyoku kissa (classical music cafes) where quiet was mandatory, and patrons lost themselves in symphonies for hours; others were centers for artists, writers, and students, buzzing with passionate debates over endless coffee and swirling cigarette smoke. They served as stages for personal dramas, quiet reflection, and business meetings alike. The cream soda was part of this scene—a steady, cheerful presence in countless stories unfolding within these cozy, timeless rooms.
From Your Dad’s Drink to Your Feed’s Flex: The Anatomy of a Nostalgia Trip
The Showa Era concluded in 1989, bringing about a dramatic shift in the cultural landscape. The bubble economy collapsed, and the optimistic futurism of the post-war years gave way to the more subdued and economically uncertain Heisei Era (1989–2019). The dark, moody kissaten began to feel somewhat outdated and stuffy—places associated with your father’s or grandfather’s generation. The new trend favored bright, airy, minimalist cafes. Starbucks entered Japan in 1996, and its clean, efficient, standardized model became the prevailing template. The classic cream soda, with its artificial green hue and simple charm, started to seem like a relic from another era.
But culture moves in cycles. Now, in the Reiwa Era, the pendulum is swinging back strongly. Young Japanese people, especially Gen Z, are deeply captivated by the Showa aesthetic. This isn’t merely a “retro” fad; it’s a profound cultural current. The key to understanding this trend is the word emoī (エモい), a slang term derived from the English “emotional” but encompassing much more. Emoī conveys a specific kind of nostalgic, sentimental feeling—the bittersweet ache evoked by a grainy, faded photo of a place you’ve never visited. It captures the mood of listening to 80s Japanese City Pop on a warm evening—a nostalgia for a past not personally experienced but somehow familiar and comforting.
Why does the Showa Era feel so emoī to today’s youth? It offers an analog antidote to their digitally saturated realities. The Showa world was defined by vinyl records, film cameras, handwritten letters, and face-to-face encounters in places like kissaten. It feels more tangible, more “real” than the hyper-curated, often isolating realm of social media. Additionally, it was a period of seemingly endless growth and optimism. For a generation raised amid economic stagnation and uncertainty about the future, the confident, forward-looking spirit of mid-Showa is incredibly alluring. It serves as a form of escapism. The cream soda perfectly embodies this sentiment—it’s a liquid expression of emoī. Holding that glass is like grasping a piece of lost optimism. Its bright, unapologetically artificial color is a burst of analog joy in a world that often values muted, naturalistic aesthetics. It offers a simple, uncomplicated pleasure that connects the drinker to a simpler, more hopeful time. This is not just a revival; it’s a re-contextualization. The cream soda has been lifted from its original context and elevated as an aesthetic object, an icon of a bygone era that now feels more relevant than ever.
The Medium is the Melon Soda: How Instagram Rebuilt the Kissaten
The cream soda revival is inseparable from social media culture—they are completely intertwined. In Japan, the idea of Instagram-bae (インスタ映え), roughly meaning “Instagrammable” or “looking good on Instagram,” has become a powerful force driving consumer trends. It’s not just about snapping a photo of what you’re doing; it’s about selecting activities based on how great the photo will look. The classic cream soda, for lack of a better term, is a photogenic icon.
Let’s analyze its visual elements. First, the color: that vibrant, translucent drink catches the light perfectly for smartphone cameras. It glows. Whether it’s the signature melon green, deep ocean blue, or soft cherry blossom pink, the color steals the show. Second, the composition: a simple, elegant design. The tall, clean glass lines, the perfectly round scoop of white ice cream contrasting sharply, and the single red cherry as a focal point create visual harmony, almost like pop art. The bubbles add texture and liveliness, making the still image dynamic. Third, the context: the drink is almost always shot inside the kissaten, where the setting matters as much as the drink itself. Dark wood, patterned wallpaper, vintage lighting—all combine to form a cohesive, atmospheric backdrop. The photo conveys not just “look at my drink,” but “look at this entire vibe I’m experiencing.”
This trend has given rise to the “neo-kissaten,” newer cafes designed specifically with Instagram-bae in mind. While inspired by the Showa era aesthetic, they tend to be brighter, cleaner, and more intentionally styled. Every detail is crafted for the camera: lighting arranged to avoid harsh shadows, tables made from materials that provide ideal backgrounds for flat-lay photos, and menus often designed as graphic art pieces. These places feel less like traditional cafes and more like interactive photo studios where you can also buy a drink. Their cream sodas are often more elaborate than the originals, featuring a wide range of colors and sometimes custom-shaped ice cream or decorative cookies. Ordering, receiving, and photographing the drink becomes a kind of ritualistic performance—finding the perfect angle, adjusting the composition, and waiting for the light to hit just right. This raises an intriguing question about authenticity: are these experiences genuine, or are they merely content creation opportunities? The answer is probably both. For many, the joy of capturing and sharing a stunning image is a genuine part of the experience. The drink becomes a prop in the story of one’s life as curated for an online audience. In this context, the cream soda is the ideal protagonist: beautiful, nostalgic, and sure to attract plenty of likes.
Field Notes from the Front Lines: A Deep Dive into Cream Soda Sanctuaries
Theory is one thing, but to truly grasp the phenomenon, you have to step inside these liquid time machines. The world of cream soda cafes isn’t uniform; it spans a spectrum from dusty, untouched relics to sleek, contemporary reinterpretations. Each offers a distinct flavor of nostalgia.
The Time Capsules: Unchanged and Unfazed
These are the original spots, the kissaten that have stood the test of time for decades. They aren’t striving to be retro; they simply are. They’ve weathered the tides of change by steadfastly refusing to change. Entering one is a genuine journey through time. The air is thick with the echoes of countless conversations, and the aesthetic isn’t curated; it’s earned.
Coffee-ten Zou, Kyoto
Hidden on a quiet side street in Kyoto, stumbling upon Coffee-ten Zou feels like uncovering a secret. There’s no flashy sign, just a heavy wooden door that swings open into a different era. Inside, dark wood and warm, low lighting create a harmonious ambiance. The seats are plush burgundy velvet, the springs softened by decades of use. It’s the kind of place where time seems to slow. Their cream soda is a classic with a whimsical twist that has made it legendary. Perched on the glass’s rim is a small, irresistibly cute cookie shaped like an animal—often an elephant, a nod to the cafe’s name (zou means elephant). It’s a charming detail that’s not a recent addition for Instagrammers; it’s been a tradition for years. This unselfconscious authenticity is what makes it so compelling. You sense that the old man behind the counter, likely there for decades, is slightly bemused but ultimately pleased by the sudden influx of young people meticulously photographing his creations. The drink itself is a perfect classic: a sweet, vibrant green melon soda crowned with a generous scoop of premium vanilla ice cream. It tastes exactly as it should—sweet, nostalgic, and utterly comforting.
Kissa Houseki-bako, Tokyo
Meaning “Jewelry Box,” this cafe represents a fascinating hybrid. It carries the soul of an old kissaten but functions with a modern, exclusive sensibility. Entry requires a reservation often booked weeks in advance. The space is tiny and intimate, feeling less like a cafe and more like a secret clubhouse for aesthetic aficionados. The owner is a master craftswoman, and the cream sodas she creates live up to the cafe’s name. They are treated like precious gems. The menu rotates seasonally, featuring deep amethyst-hued grape sodas in autumn or pale, cloudy lychee sodas in summer. The real showstopper is the ice cream, often a bespoke flavor tailored to the soda, topped not with a cherry but a small, perfectly cut piece of fruit or an edible flower. What’s most striking is the precision—the ice cream is placed just so, and the garnish angled perfectly. It’s the kissaten tradition elevated to high art. The experience is quiet and contemplative; you’re there to appreciate the beauty of the creation before you. It perfectly captures how a simple, nostalgic drink can be transformed into a coveted, high-end experience through skill and rarity.
The Re-imaginings: Showa 2.0
These are new-generation cafes consciously reviving the kissaten aesthetic for a modern audience. They’re students of the Showa era, meticulously recreating the vibe, often with contemporary twists. It’s nostalgia as a design choice, scrubbed clean and perfectly framed.
Kissa Nikai, Tokyo
Situated on the second floor (nikai) of a building in the trendy Koenji neighborhood, Kissa Nikai is a masterclass in Showa revival. The moment you climb the narrow staircase, you’re immersed in the aesthetic. Every detail is flawless—from the specific shade of seafoam green on the wall tiles to vintage-style posters that seem lifted from a 1970s magazine, to carefully sourced mid-century modern furniture. It’s the Showa era as an idealized fantasy: cleaner, brighter, and less smoky than the originals, making it more accessible to today’s tastes. Their cream sodas are signature items, served in elegant, long-stemmed glasses. They stick to classics like melon green and sky blue, but the execution is impeccable. The ice cream is perfectly rounded, the cherry precisely placed. It’s a textbook example of the form. Kissa Nikai understands its audience intuitively, providing the perfect setting, props, and lighting for patrons to create their own emoī-imbued content. It’s a symbiotic relationship: the cafe supplies the aesthetic, and the customers supply the marketing by sharing stunning photos online.
Shiseido Parlour Salon de Café, Ginza
Here, nostalgia becomes a high-luxury experience. Shiseido, the global cosmetics giant, has a history deeply intertwined with this culture. The company opened a soda fountain in its Ginza building back in 1902, introducing ice cream and soda water to a curious Japanese public. The current Salon de Café is a direct descendant of that legacy. Located in the heart of Tokyo’s priciest shopping district, this is worlds apart from a dusty local kissaten. The space is elegant and refined, with waitstaff in crisp uniforms and a clientele of affluent shoppers. Their cream soda, listed as “Ice Cream Soda” on the menu, is a study in perfectionism and premium ingredients. Flavors range from classic melon to seasonal specialties like strawberry or peach, all made with syrups derived from real fruit. The ice cream is homemade, rich, and creamy. Served in custom-designed, gracefully curved glasses with long silver spoons, this cream soda is haute cuisine elevated. It marks the commercial peak of the trend, where a simple nostalgic drink is rebranded as a luxury item, reflecting the brand’s long and storied history. It’s a powerful statement that this aesthetic isn’t just a fleeting youth trend but has deep roots in Japanese modern culture.
The Avant-Garde: Deconstructing the Soda
Some venues take the spirit of the visually stunning kissaten drink and push it in innovative new directions. They play with form, deconstructing the elements of color, fizz, and sweetness to create something new yet spiritually connected to the classic cream soda.
Kissa Soiree, Kyoto
Soiree is legendary. Opened in 1948, it’s famous for its otherworldly, dreamlike interior bathed in an eerie, beautiful blue light from its distinctive fixtures. It feels like an underwater ballroom. While they serve a traditional cream soda, their most famous and most photographed offering is the “Jelly Punch.” Technically not a cream soda, as it contains no ice cream, it belongs to the same family of jewel-like, photogenic drinks. A tall glass is filled with shimmering, rainbow-hued gelatin cubes, over which clear, fizzy soda water is poured, making the colors dance and sparkle. It’s mesmerizing. The Jelly Punch perfectly embodies the core principles of the aesthetic: vibrant color, playful forms, and pure visual delight. It reveals that the impulse to create these beautiful, celebratory, almost childlike drinks has been part of kissaten culture long before Instagram existed. Soiree didn’t create the Jelly Punch for social media; social media simply found it, recognizing it as a masterpiece of a genre that had been hidden in plain sight for decades.
But How Does It Actually Taste? Managing Expectations in a World of Filters
We’ve discussed extensively the aesthetics, history, and cultural significance. But let’s get down to the basics: what are you actually drinking? If you come from a Western craft soda background, with its focus on all-natural ingredients, complex botanical blends, and subtle flavors, you’ll need to adjust your expectations. This is not that.
The iconic, nearly fluorescent green of a classic cream soda represents melon flavor. However, it’s not the taste of fresh cantaloupe or honeydew. It’s a very specific, distinctly artificial “melon” flavor common throughout Japan. You’ll find it in candy, chewing gum, and shaved ice. This flavor is deeply embedded in the Japanese palate as a symbol of childhood, summer festivals, and special treats. The soda itself is often a commercial melon soda like Fanta Melon or a simple syrup mixed with carbonated water. It is unapologetically sweet and artificial. The ice cream is usually a standard, straightforward vanilla—not too rich or eggy—meant to provide a creamy, cooling contrast to the soda’s sharp fizz. When combined, it creates a sweet, creamy, fizzy blend that is simple, direct, and incredibly satisfying on a fundamental level.
Here’s the key point: that’s exactly the intention. It’s not meant to be a gourmet product. Its flavor is a form of nostalgia, just like its appearance. It’s designed to evoke a simpler time. The slightly synthetic taste is part of its appeal, a crucial part of its retro identity. Criticizing a classic melon cream soda for tasting artificial is like faulting a classic rock and roll song for having a simple chord progression. You’re missing the entire point. The flavor is a historical artifact. Of course, in more upscale, modern versions like those at Shiseido Parlour, you’ll find natural flavors and premium ingredients. But to truly appreciate the phenomenon, you need to experience the classic melon soda in all its green, sugary glory. It’s a flavor memory, a direct connection to the optimistic, Technicolor world of the Showa Era.
More Than a Drink: The Cream Soda as a Cultural Barometer
So, returning to the original question: why the obsession? As you’ve seen, it’s not just one factor. The cream soda revival is a perfect storm, a blend of powerful cultural currents. It’s the visual catnip expertly designed for the social media era. It offers a tangible link to the emoī aesthetic, enabling young people to literally taste a piece of the romanticized Showa past they never experienced. It also stands as a testament to the lasting influence of the kissaten as a cultural institution—a sanctuary for refuge and quiet reflection.
On a deeper level, the popularity of cream soda reveals something profound about modern Japan. It embodies a quiet longing for the optimism and perceived simplicity of a past era amid contemporary concerns about the economy and the future. It’s a small, affordable, and accessible form of escapism. For the price of a drink, you can step away from the relentless march of time and spend an hour immersed in a cozy, beautiful, amber-lit past. It also highlights Japan’s unique cultural brilliance in preservation and perfection. The way the cream soda’s form has been lovingly maintained, examined, and sometimes elevated to an art form is distinctly Japanese—the same drive that compels a master sushi chef to perfect fish slicing or a ceramicist to dedicate years to mastering a single glaze.
When you see that glowing glass on your feed, you’re not just seeing a fashionable drink. You’re witnessing a conversation between generations, a dialogue between the analog past and the digital present. You’re observing a complex cultural mood—a blend of nostalgia, aesthetic appreciation, and a quest for comfort—all embodied in a single, beautiful, bubbly object. The cream soda is not a glitch in the matrix. It’s a key: a brightly colored, sweet, and fizzy key to understanding the heart of a culture that is always looking toward the future but can never quite let go of its past.
