A living tradition, since the first leaf.

A return, not a discovery.

I grew up watching my father whisk matcha in a small kitchen in Tokyo. The smell, the gesture, the quiet — none of it was ceremonious; it was just morning. When I moved to Paris to study, I ordered my first matcha latte at a café in the 6th. It tasted like green vegetable juice. I drank it anyway, and felt a small grief I didn't immediately understand.

What followed was a quiet search — through cafés, through Kyoto tea rooms, through the slow rituals of chadō. I learned that what most of the world was being sold as matcha bore no resemblance to the thing itself. JINGŪ is, in part, an attempt to fix that.

Tokyo · Paris, one rhythm.

The house lives between Tokyo and Paris — the two cities that have shaped how we see beauty. From Tokyo: the rigour of shokunin craft, the quiet density of urban Zen. From Paris: l'art de vivre, the dignified café, the architecture of a slow morning.

Neither city dominates. They sit alongside the matcha — quietly, the way Tokyo sits inside a Paris kitchen at 7am.

Working with the makers — Takatoriyaki Souke, since 1600.

JINGŪ does not make its own ceramics. We work directly with Takatori Hachizan XIII — the thirteenth-generation master of the Takatoriyaki Souke lineage, founded in 1600 as the official kiln for the Kuroda clan in Chikuzen, now Fukuoka. Four hundred and twenty years of glaze, soot, and patience.

Every bowl in the collection is thrown, glazed, and signed by his hand. The same is true of our matcha — single-origin, hand-shaded, stone-milled at small workshops in Uji, Yame, and Nishio.