A Postcard from Tokyo

It’s raining in Japan. A heavy summer downpour; sky the colour of old concrete. A fleet of square Toyota taxis—children’s drawings with polished chrome trim—move through the soup, until one stops. A driver in a pressed black uniform appears and wordlessly manoeuvres us, and our luggage, out of the rain and into the outskirts of the city. Through the mist of the passenger window you can see office blocks and apartment buildings, billboards for teeth whitening solutions and soft drinks. 

On our first night we meet Ken, a Tokyo local and our friendly guide on the ground during our visit, at the Ginza Lion, the city’s oldest beer hall. Groups of friends crowd around tables, sinking pints and shouting to be heard over the din—a universal language.

At a sushi restaurant the size of a living room, one of Ken’s favourites, we eat an oyster from Kyoto the size of an ice hockey puck while the chefs, in pristine white, hunch over the kitchen counter, probing and prying fish from that day’s market. As we leave, the owner follows us outside and, illuminated by the streetlight and the sign of the Italian restaurant opposite, waves until we round the corner and disappear from view.  

Tokyo is overwhelming, exhilarating, a long way from home. Waves of people, cars, chaos at Shibuya crossing. Just keep going. A quiet morning in Daikanyama, birdsong and the gentle whir of a Mitsubishi air conditioner mingling with the peace and sounds of children playing in the park. Neat houses in pastel colours and wooden doors bathed in morning sunlight. Ken takes us for yakitori and chicken sashimi which… is raw chicken. It’s better than it sounds; the room is thick with smoke from a flattop grill and the table chain-smoking next to us.

Shu, a long-time friend of Drake’s, meets us in Shibuya. He calls himself Tokyo’s number one salaryman, and we believe him. We head downstairs to Grandfathers, an essential pilgrimage for anyone who likes martinis, dark rooms and rare vinyl being played by an octogenarian with a penchant for free jazz and, slightly more peculiarly, the work of Jamie Cullum. At a restaurant around the corner we have the place to ourselves. High benches, faded teal wallpaper and dried flowers in the window. The couple who run it have been in this same corner of Tokyo for more than half a century. The chef’s knife glides through fatty tuna and fresh salmon, an impassive look of concentration on his lined face. 

You could come here 100 times… 200, and still not really know it. Shu leads us out into the swell of Shibuya at night, down an alley and through a door. Upstairs a woman is stood behind a bar, the floors are carpeted, warm light cast against a dark room with low ceilings.

We pull up stools and order a round of whisky highballs. Karaoke time. The microphone is passed back and forth; more whisky. At the far side of the bar a solitary man in a dark suit loosens his tie and rattles through a pack of cigarettes, occasionally pausing his vigorous smoking to belt out a spirited rendition of the Beatles' back catalogue, eyes closed for dramatic effect. 

“Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away. Now it looks as though they're here to stay. Oh, I believe in yesterday.”