You always knew when 4 p.m. came around. A random breath would pull in the distinct aroma of smoke from the grill. Within 50 yards of my Kobe home office were no fewer than four restaurants specializing in grilled meats, fish, and/or vegetables, one of which is captured in this week’s photograph.

The first order of business when they opened for the day was to turn charcoal into white-hot coals in preparation for the grill master chef. The attention to detail of a Japanese grill master is something impressive to witness. You can catch a glimpse of that care and pursuit of perfection in the chef’s face in our photograph.

On my early evening walks, it was always a highlight if I could catch a glimpse of the chef, high above the street, working his magic. It was an emotional time of day for me—the sun nearly gone for the night, the heat of the day quickly evaporating, leaving a brisk bite in the air. The vibrations of the masses—day dwellers, cars, and trucks—shook the ground as they headed home. Every now and then, the occasional scent of a woman’s perfume would drift by as she made her way to her favorite hole-in-the-wall.

There was something about walking through Kobe at dusk, with the air full of smoke and life, that always brought Anthony Bourdain to mind. His absence left a void in the world, and each step reminded me that a world without him was one I would have to come to terms with. Dusk was always an emotional time, a moment where the light faded and I’d find myself ruminating in a familiar melancholy. I imagined him here, walking the streets with me, soaking in the sights, the smells, the energy. We’d spot the cook in this week’s photograph, staring into a cloud of smoke, gauging its quality by its color and scent, and both of us would light up with excitement. “We dine there, with that cook, tonight,” we’d say in unison. Seeing the fine selection of beverages behind the chef, Anthony would grin and say, “And tonight, I teach you how to drink.”

Hungrily, we would ask the grill master for every detail about how and why he placed the coals in their bed underneath the grill mesh to bring the metal to temperature. The billows of smoke from this alchemy of heat and protein flooded the neighborhood air. While Japan has smoke and smell-dampening technology, you’d never know it by the scent in the streets. And while surely a nuance to some, for most, the smoke was a vital note in the melody of so many other sights, sounds, and smells that made the city feel alive.

Deep into the night, the beer and sake would flow as hard-working patrons vented their troubles among friends and coworkers. Between hits of a cigarette, they’d take savory bites of grilled food. The chatter. The laughter. Kobe’s air filled with life until the last train of the night took them all home.

Those of us who lived there would host as guests for the night those who missed that train. Kobe’s air would shift again, settling into a quieter rhythm, until the first trains began the cycle anew—smoke in the air, life on the streets, and the city coming alive once more.

And now… know the photograph.