A speakeasy bar, a secret diner, an izakaya behind hidden doors: we seek a mystery tonight.
Pods of blanched edamame, their green shells piling up like unpaid interest. Coarsely rolled maki, the tightly packed rice grains squeezing the innards of avocado and raw fish into a slurry. Another bottle of cold beer from Sapporo, and then another.
We are seated at the bar, a handsome showcase of artisanal carpentry made from kiln-dried Japanese keyaki wood. The shelves of fine Japanese whiskies behind our bartender bask in a reverent glow. He introduces every dish that leaves the kitchen: this is an intimate meal, a conversation.
Only the clatter of wooden chopsticks, only the slight rustle of tender derrières adjusting on leather seats. Only this evening, our stiff drinks and languorous bites, and the promise of not leaving till it’s well past midnight.