Propper
CINQUECENTO
This gimmick of this expat refuge is that everything is ¥500; the catch is that the beer comes in half-pints and you have a choice between Heineken and Heineken. I sunk a dismal few and was pulled into conversation with the beginnings of a bad joke: a Kiwi, an Irishman and a German. Too many Muslims in Berlin, said the last. Let's snuff out that thread, shall we? The T-shirted Kiwi informed me, in a quavering voice which betrayed his youth, that he did a little modelling work on the side. The second time he said it it was almost relevant to the topic being discussed. Further down, the short, bleach-blond Irishman held court forgettably. All here to teach English, God help.
THE BLARNEY STONE
It is common knowledge that the best Irish pubs are to be found in Japan. And that they play EDM from a laptop and have pencil portraits of Zoe Saldana as that thing from Avatar prominently displayed on their walls.
NAYUTA
A street-level sign offers no real information beyond 'Come up and see'. And so you do, feeling like Alice as you stoop to pass through a tiny doorway on the fifth floor. The interior is compact, darkly elegant, the main focus being the impressively - and esoterically - stocked bar. In lieu of a menu the bartender asks what you like and concocts something from your fumbled adjectives, or provides a twist on a named classic. Yes, I agree, but my whiskey sour was undeniably excellent. I even said as much. "I know," said the bartender; "I made it."
SOUTHSIDE MUSIC BAR
I interrupted the owner playing blues to a few hunched bodies as I walked in. Acoustic guitars and faded concert posters covered the walls. Mounting a stool, I noted the stark image from Tonight's the Night and rolled up my raincoat sleeves with relish. When the bar had mostly cleared, we somehow got to trading songs, a drunken but friendly trenchcoat clapping us on. I outlasted the lush and my reward was a screening of some interminable Pink Floyd performance on the bar's TV. Revenge, perhaps, for the assaults I had inflicted upon music.
A street-level sign offers no real information beyond 'Come up and see'. And so you do, feeling like Alice as you stoop to pass through a tiny doorway on the fifth floor. The interior is compact, darkly elegant, the main focus being the impressively - and esoterically - stocked bar. In lieu of a menu the bartender asks what you like and concocts something from your fumbled adjectives, or provides a twist on a named classic. Yes, I agree, but my whiskey sour was undeniably excellent. I even said as much. "I know," said the bartender; "I made it."
SOUTHSIDE MUSIC BAR
I interrupted the owner playing blues to a few hunched bodies as I walked in. Acoustic guitars and faded concert posters covered the walls. Mounting a stool, I noted the stark image from Tonight's the Night and rolled up my raincoat sleeves with relish. When the bar had mostly cleared, we somehow got to trading songs, a drunken but friendly trenchcoat clapping us on. I outlasted the lush and my reward was a screening of some interminable Pink Floyd performance on the bar's TV. Revenge, perhaps, for the assaults I had inflicted upon music.
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