Only Have Chinese Between Us

We had the hotel breakfast late in the morning and went out to meet the kids who were sleeping at their big brother’s place.   The cab driver was very kind.  Once he discerned that we had no idea just where the final destination was beyond the address we’d shared he parked the car and abandoned the car’s GPS and broke out his handy, Tokyo taxi driver’s book of chome knowledge.  "It should be that building there." He offered, finally.  “Does your friend not speak Japanese?” My wife of twenty years had shades on but must have otherwise appeared to this diplomatic cabdriver as my Japanese girlfriend.  “No.  Sorry.   We only have Chinese between us.” 

Two subway rides later the four of us were strolling out to the brighter-than-thou Daikanyama morning.  We followed the traffic down one shopping alley with little Bernal Heights sized dwellings till we were forced to loop back along past a new row of picturesque boutiques, which my ladies enjoyed considering and I couldn’t have cared less about.   My wife recognized a flowery garden of an entrance which sported a restaurant in the back of the plaza.  But everyone seemed set on having “Japanese food” and all they could offer for an indefinite waiting period, was Provencal.   I grabbed an espresso and my kids split a mascarpone treat form the bakery across the way, while my wife considered the home goods shop. 

There’s a big apartment tower in the middle of Daikanyama.  I hope someone raised a fuss when they decided to build it.  It’s lovely of course, and I’m sure it costs a small fortune to live there but it doesn’t fit with all this cutesy-coziness of this neighborhood.   I suggested we walk down that way as I’d recalled there was a footpath heading down to Shibuya, which had restaurants along the side.  We walked beneath the big tower and I considered something an old friend had told me about this neighborhood:  'This is the bluff from which the Shogun generals could look down on the city and consider all before them.'  I liked this story, though he has said similar things about other Tokyo neighborhoods, as well. 

One block turned to another.   Down at this corner is a place where my friend had taken me.  Yes.  Here.  Here it is.  “Dad, it’s Italian.”  "Right.  OK.  Let’s go to this footpath then."  We crossed the road where we shouldn’t have and felt bad about it, this being Japan.  The footpath led us to a lovely outdoor beer garden, which I vaguely remembered as being there.  But they had only burgers and fries.   So many places serving everything except: Japanese food.  So we traveled on.  And there was complaining.  People were hungry.  “Just this way.”  And they could see that we were coming down the hill now towards the Ebisu subway the restaurant storefronts were returning.   I took a call and they piled into a Japanese-looking place in desperation.  When I entered I was able to tip the point on a quick exit, as it was only a pasta place, and then, finally, not long after we were all enjoying some hearty curry Ramen, which was just about worth the wait for. 


Saturday, 4/30/17