Fancy A Pint

Went for a drink afterwards with Steve.

“Pubs” as we understand them are very much a Western hallmark and don’t really exist this far away from the centre (our location, Itabashi, is technically not Tokyo).

Still we thought we’d chance our arm and went looking for an establishment. We weren’t having much luck when Steve spotted what could only be described as a shed door.

“Oh I think this is a drinking hole” he said pointing at a Japanese symbol as he slid back a slab of battered wood.

Wasn’t quite ready for the sight/smell that greeted me. It was dingy, dirty grotto-like affair with an impossibly low roof and a small wooden counter which appeared to be constructed from shards of wood salvaged from the wrecks of medieval tea clippers.

Most notably there was a stench so powerful it made me go like this, audibly and involuntarily: “Greeeuuugh” . The smell was of indeterminate maritime origin, and reminded me of barnacles on rusted anchors, and the smelly rockpool seaweed that stuck to your legs when you were a child.

Behind the counter was an 87 year-old man who, upon our arrival, unsteadily pushed himself out of a chair and began pulling on a dirty white short-sleeved coat. Not sure what he needed the coat for.

Not sure what was down smeared down the front of it either. He meant business, though. Steve looked back at me, as if to say “hmmm…not sure about this”. I looked back at him to say “I am. Let’s go”

Steve then jabbered on to him asking him what time he closed, promising we would come back later. Quick thinking. And of course, we wouldn’t.

Finally found a vaguely normal bar. Had been drinking for approx 5 minutes when we were accosted by the bar’s only other customer, a heavy-smoking 87 year old Japanese lady with prune-like skin.

In Japanese:

Prune: Are you American?
Steve: No. We’re English.
Prune: Nah. You have American faces
Steve: Well, no, we are English.
Prune: Your Japanese is rubbish.
Steve: Thanks (then in English to me) Stupid bitch.