The Nooks and Niches of Japan: Part 1
Just like Oprah, I recently traveled to Japan. And, like most people who are fortunate enough to experience its incredible culture, food, art, nature, history, and unique way of life, I came back wondering if there was any way I could bottle up some of Japan’s magic and bring it back to the U.S.
Could I forge some sort of business partnership between 7-Eleven and amazing chefs and brands around the U.S. to make our convenience stores carry food that’s as good as the onigiri, karaage and egg salad sandwiches I ate pretty much everyday while there? (I’m not the only person who feels this way.)
Is there a way to make our public restrooms as luxe and architecturally inspiring as the famed Tokyo Toilets in Shibuya? Unfortunately, I think most of what happens in Japan stays in Japan, but I’m going to share some reflections on the country’s “nooks” and a playlist. Part 2 will focus on Japan’s “niches” and some specific travel recommendations that don’t fit into an aptly named category.
Nooks: Embracing Intimate Spaces
I like to think of myself as a friendly person, but I generally tense up whenever strangers try to speak with me in confined spaces. I’m always slightly taken aback whenever people try to start a conversation in an elevator. Anything more than a smile or a whispered “hello” feels intrusive. On airplanes, I often make myself as unapproachable as possible—slipping on my headphones…while reading a book…while journaling…while pretending to be asleep. Perhaps it’s the many years of people pleasing or pandemic-induced agoraphobia or just being a woman in the world, but, after moving from New York City to Los Angeles and transitioning to remote work, my interactions with strangers in small spaces are becoming limited.
That being said, I love humans! I really, truly do. I didn’t realize how much I missed the joy of spontaneous interactions until I arrived in Japan. Its major cities – Tokyo, Kyoto, and Osaka – are dense with millions of mom & pop restaurants and bars that fit no more than 6-12 people at one time. Although they face increased competition from global retailers, these compact establishments continue to thrive and are at the heart of Japan’s drinking and dining culture.
When I first visited Tokyo for work in 2018, I became enamored with Golden Gai—a labyrinth of narrow streets and passageways with over 200 distinctly themed bars, izakaya style eateries, and miniature clubs in the neighborhood of Shinjuku. I couldn’t wait to go back.
This time around, after walking up and down the alleys of Golden Gai and carefully inspecting ramshackle pubs with names like Troll II, Albatross, and Orange Prince, my husband Benzi and I entered an unassuming bar called Baltimore—named after the Nina Simone album.
We sat at the L-shaped bar directly across the bartender, a middle-aged woman named Emi. Emi, however, was more than a bartender. In addition to pouring us drinks and serving fish-flavored crackers in small bowls, she generously facilitated conversations between the tourists and the non-English speaking regulars in the bar. A French couple squeezed next to us and was lovingly mocked by a cigarette-smoking regular for ordering hot sake (apparently cold is the way to go). “Mottainai,” he said with a smile, which Emi translated as a Japanese idiom for “what a waste.” We all ended up ordering cold sake and were glad that we did. Emi carefully selected the records in the bar—ranging from 1960s jazz flute to Nina Simone (naturally), to more contemporary Japanese alt-rock. She was a one-woman show, who could have easily just poured us drinks in exchange for a few yen, but, instead, she took the time and care to curate an experience that in turn lured us into staying in her bar far longer than we had intended.
We continued to experience these magical, intimate moments throughout our travels. One evening, after walking up a few flights of stairs in a poorly-lit commercial building and down a narrow hallway, Benzi and I arrived at Sushi-yaa, an omakase-style sushi restaurant in Tokyo’s neighborhood of Ginza. For nearly three hours, we watched the exquisitely talented chef Mamoru Hashimoto slice and press perfect bites of tuna, yellowtail, scallops, uni, and more into ever-so-sweet, sushi rice.
About an hour into the meal, the gentleman sitting next to Benzi broke the silence of seven transfixed diners and started emitting groans and exclamations of ecstasy after each dish he tasted. While this initially made me (and likely all the other diners) uncomfortable, the old adage of “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” proved true. After thirty minutes of gasping “oh my god this, is so good” and “this is the single best piece of tuna I’ve ever had,” we actually started speaking with one another, instead of gushing at Chef Hashimoto. We shared Japan travel recs, debated where to find the best pizza and bagels in NYC, and lamented how much our lives and respective cities (all in the U.S) had changed after the pandemic.
By the end of the meal, we walked back down the stairwell feeling like we had just left a friend’s dinner party (more specifically, a super wealthy friend who hired a very talented sushi chef.) Related sidenote: For a lesson in sensuality and Japanese food, watch one of my all time favorite movies, Tampopo.
(Chef Hashimoto of Sushi-yaa posing with a box of uni)While Sushi-yaa was our best meal in Japan, our most memorable “nook” was a karaoke/whisky bar called Bar Mini Motto in Akihabara—a neighborhood in Tokyo famous for its enormous malls filled with electronics, arcades, photobooths, manga shops, and maid cafes. We ordered whisky, served in heavy, crystal glasses from a kind man formally dressed in a starched white shirt, black vest, and tie. In a similar fashion to Emi, he facilitated conversation by introducing us to his regulars, a couple that looked to be in their 30’s and their friend who was visiting from Osaka. After our barmates clinked glasses and congratulated us on our recent wedding, I felt closer to them and started bragging about Benzi’s amazing singing voice. Very begrudgingly, Benzi sang Neil Young’s Heart of Gold, and, while he usually slays that song, it wasn’t his best performance. After he finished, the woman from the couple selected a song, and, I kid you not, she had perfect pitch. Not only was her song selection iconic (the track by Superfly—a love song frequently played at weddings) she sounded like someone plucked her out of a Broadway musical. After I picked my jaw up from the floor, her husband, who had been pretty quiet, proudly exclaimed, “they call her the Diva of Osaka.” We stayed at the bar late into the night singing along whenever we could but mainly reveling in the pure joy from the businessmen, gamblers, lovers, and other oddballs that sang extremely catchy anime theme songs (also included below) and Japanese pop classics.
Singing the theme song of Dragonball Z in Akihabara, Tokyo
The Italian writer Cesare Pavese famously wrote, “we do not remember days, we remember moments.” Reflecting on my journey through Japan’s intimate spaces, this sentiment deeply resonates with me. The enchantment of Japan’s nooks lies not only in their physical charms but also in the moments of connection, discovery, and delight they facilitate.
As I return to my daily life in Los Angeles, I carry with me a newfound appreciation for the beauty of small spaces and meaningful interactions. While the U.S. doesn’t lend itself to supporting millions of 6-12 seat restaurants in our major cities (or at least not yet), I do believe that there are ways we can either create our own intimate experiences or more readily turn towards strangers and make those interactions feel more enriching and exciting (e.g., not immediately putting on your headphones when you hop into a cab or rideshare, as beautifully detailed in this David Sedaris essay On the Joy of Talking to Strangers.) Restaurant owners, maître d’s, and bartenders can revert back to an Old Hollywood-esque charm and realize that their vocations may in fact be critical roles in our society, piecing together a socially fractured country. Perhaps the essence of Japan’s magic isn’t confined to a specific place but rather in our ability to infuse everyday life with curiosity, openness, and genuine connection.