Black Coffee Blues

Being a Seattleite, the label of “coffee snob” is already implied. Home of Starbucks, Seattle’s Best, and Tully’s, all easily found throughout Japan, Seattle’s reputation for coffee preceeds itself- in Japan, anyway. To the rest of the world, these coffee giants represent McCoffee- a cheap rip-off from the coffee shops of old, at least as far as good quality taste is concerned. Sadly, these shops are the only place I can readily find a decent shot of espresso, topped with a proper dollop of foam. Upon my arrival in Japan, I tried to avoid these places in hopes of supporting local establishments. Too many times, I got burned, leaving with a soured tongue.

A year or so ago, one of my former colleagues treated me to a mocha at Excelsior Café, a Starbucks wannabe. The mocha was like something I’d expect from a vending machine and though the smokers were separated by the floor above, the stench nonetheless lingered in the air. I then found a little shop near my house- the coffee was so weak it couldn’t even stain the whitest of white silks. The only thing that might discolor fine fabrics in this place were the stale nicotine clouds that permeated the place. Then I found Nishimura’s Coffee, a café decorated in a typical Victorian fashion with dainty tea cups and employees dressed in uniforms fit for a scene of Anne of Green Gables. The waiter politely offered me a table and handed me an English menu. Cappuccino: $6. 'Expensive but...okay, I’ll give it a shot,' I thought to myself. I indicated my choice to the server and he returned a short time later, carrying an eight ounce tea cup of what seemed like brewed Folgers’s, topped with whipped cream. A cappuccino Japanese style? I’m not sure. I choked it down, not wanting to completely waste six bucks. I began reading, Islam and Ecology, but was soon engulfed with secondhand smoke again, prompting my exit.

I reached my breaking point. I gave up. I became a coffee whore. An outspoken critic of Starbucks and their policy of targeting of ma and pa shops, I allowed myself to be sucked into the only hope of enjoying a drinkable cup of joe in a smoke-free environment. I was pleasantly surprised when I entered that all too accustomed space, painted in earthy tones of mocha, and forest green, dotted with quaint maroon colored tables, both because of the familiarity I established with it in my uni days and due to the warm welcome I received from the staff behind the counter. When the barista called out my tall soy cap, I was elated to find a near perfect silky dollop of foam floating on the surface of a double espresso, rising above the rim of a ceramic cup (granted, the shot was left sitting while the foam was being prepared, resulting in reduced crème and the extra hint of flavor it once produced, not to mention having to pay an extra $.50 for the second shot, normally standard in a tall size).

Ahhhh…. the closest thing to quality coffee I had experienced in months. Incidentally, when I visited LA, I stopped into a Starbucks to order my usual. I had to interrupt a conversation between the employees before they even acknowledged my presence. If that wasn’t enough, not only was the shot dead, the foam resembled soap suds left over from washing dirty dishes. It became immediately clear that I wasn’t in Japan anymore.

Recently, while on one of our weekend biking excursions, Tsugumi and I stumbled on Tamas, a family owned rustic bakery. Japan is full of French style bakeries but artisan breads are few and far between nor have I yet to come across any sprouted loaves. Tamas not only has artisan breads, they have a great assortment of rolls and pastries. Inside the little blue framed storefront is a cozy space with a street level entrance, displaying fresh baked breads. The smell of wholegrain bread is reminiscent of my childhood; I can recall as though it were yesterday when Vikki, my babysitter, removed her scrumptious, homemade golden loaves from the oven. There’s nothing more pleasant than recalling that buttery aroma, floating in the kitchen and the anticipation of spreading homemade raspberry jam over a warm slice.

Tamas is the kind of place that brings back those childhood memories. This weekend, we returned to relive that experience. We ordered a dark cherry pastry, a folded croissant, along with a raisin role, served hot, a dap of apple butter on the side. Mmmm.
They don’t sell their customers on an array of coffee choices, however; instead they simply offer great drip coffees. Better to do it right than not and try to pass it off as the real thing. They also offer a lunch menu which includes a mouth watering basil, mozzarella, and tomato sandwich, served on… yes, fresh baked bread. We’ve never eaten lunch there but having seen it, there’s no denying the satisfaction of the person who did.

Finding Tamas was a gem. It’s the ideal place to unwind, enjoy great breads, and quality organic coffee. The charming atmosphere of a family run café while thumbing through Tolstoy's War and Peace, while jazz sounds hum in the background, is something I’ve long missed since leaving the Seattle coffee scene behind. Everything found at Tamas comes naturally to the family who makes it happen; homemade breads and pastries, music selected by the people who play it (rather than a pre-programmed list from a corporate office somewhere), authentic murals, painted by local artists (as opposed to the trendy wallpaper pasted to the walls), and family hospitality that just comes with the package, not requiring the clientele to clear their throats in order to be noticed. In short, the experience is an authentic one, unlike the manufactured ambiance of the green and white Siren.

On the weekends, they also sell fresh, organic produce at a reasonable price on the sidewalk out front. Unfortunately, we waited until after we finished our visit to browse the new harvest, which by that time had been pretty well picked over. We bought what we could, stuffing the greens into a backpack, and made our way back over the hill to our flat where we cooked up a big pot of nabe, Japanese stew- the perfect conclusion to a late winter afternoon.

For locals who happen to be reading this, Tamas is located in Ashiya, just up from Ikari Super, a ways north of the Hankyu line, in the Higashiyama-cho neighborhood, at the base of the mountains.

The Little Sicily of Mondoyakujin

Last year, one of my former colleagues recommended an Italian restaurant, only a short bike ride from our flat. We ventured there on a few occasions during the summer but they were always closed. I was worried they had shut down. One day while we were in the vicinity of Mondoyakujin, we followed the sweet scent of simmering tomatoes and fresh oregano to the entrance of La Lanterna. “Alas! It’s open!” we expressed with delightful anticipation. As we ventured inside, we came into a dimly lit space, housing a bar and six or eight stools against the triangular 8 x 12 kitchen (considerably narrower at the end with the cash register), along with a few tables situated opposite the entrance. We managed to squeeze into a tiny space at the bar.

The guys behind the counter were both Sicilian- a hopeful site. The menu features a wide selection of pasta and pizza at typical Japanese prices, $10-$20 a plate. Tsugumi ordered a pasta dish swimming in fresh stewed tomatoes and herbs while I opted for the pizza margarita. The pasta was perfect- served aldente in a light fragrant sauce. The pizza was no less incredible, baked in a large wood fired oven, producing a soft, bubbly crust. We followed it up with espresso and a slice of rich, handmade tiramisu. It’s not everyday that we find Italian food as authentic as this. The only other time I experienced anything similar was in New York’s Little Italy.

Over the weekend, we decided to make our way back there again. We found our place at the bar, this time they were just opening for dinner, the soccer game playing on the television lodged in the corner, near the ceiling above. We were the first arrivals of the evening. Tsugumi decided on the pasta formaggio; I chose the Sicilian pizza. The owner, Salvatore Maggio, is a really friendly guy whose command of Japanese outdoes his English ability. He’s been in Japan for six years and plans to open another spot in Tokyo. He said he imports his ingredients from Italy himself- one would almost have to if they wanted to turn a profit. He also owns a restaurant back home. I don’t know if we’ll ever make it there- for now La Lanterna serves as our imaginary portal into Sicily.

Homage to Hiroshima: Day Two, Miyajima

Midway through our memorial visit to Hiroshima, we ventured out on a much needed one-day excursion to Miyajima, located about an hour beyond the city by train. We hopped aboard one of the many streetcars around eleven am, en route to the nearest train station. Unlike many of the subways, trains, and busses I’ve taken, which typically seem fairly new, the streetcars looked as though they had been in operation since the city’s post-war reconstruction. Thick, riveted, ironclad exteriors, nicely painted and very clean inside, the cars rumbled down the tracks laid down middle of the street. Glancing below at the very large slabs of chiseled granite used to house the tracks, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that they were the originals put emplace a century ago. Had the cars not been weighed down by their heavy frames, it would seem as though they’d be doomed to derailing as they leaned from side to side, noisily down the track, reminiscent of the trolleys that screech along the streets of San Francisco.

As we made our way down the track, I caught my fist glimpse of the Atomic Bomb Dome, a visible skeleton that brings to mind all the souls that were doomed there sixty years before. An eerie silence enveloped my psyche as we passed by, despite business carrying on as usual around me. I really wasn’t ready to see it yet. We passed over the river, along the reconstructed bridge that was the intended as the target of the bomb, which didn’t actually land but detonated 600 meters above to ensure the utmost devastation.

Creaking down the road, we were soon out of the city, traveling on much smoother rails with views of the mountainside and several small orchards to the west with the bay to the east. The day was cold and windy with the sun breaking through the clouds from time-to-time. We disembarked at the ferry station and browsed around the gift shop- nothing special though. As in America, if you been to one, you’ve been to a thousand. Vendors were attempting to entice passersby with samples of octopus tentacles on a stick, similar to corndogs, I guess, which I politely declined.

The ferryboat arrived, slightly surprising me by its small size. It may have been able to hold six cars or so but was nothing compared to the ones I used to take across Puget Sound. Not surprisingly, the same number of people were onboard this one as the ones in Seattle. Occasionally, I’m still amused by the miniature versions of things I’m used to back home, i.e., tiny vacuums, kitchen appliances, itsy-mini vans, and garbage trucks not much bigger than the Lincoln Navigator. That’s not to say everything in Japan is small, however. In fact, sometimes the size ratio of trucks to cars, barreling down the road, through red lights and while alternating between slamming on the breaks and slamming the accelerator, can be enough to dissuade anyone from obtaining an international driver’s license.

We approached the Itsukushima Island, with the blazing orange gate in the foreground- a spectacular site. As with all Shinto shrines, the gate signals the primary entry, only this one, as well as the shrine itself, was built over the bay so when the tide comes in, it appears as though floating above the sea. The motivation to build it in such as way is unclear; some speculate it was built to honor the goddess of the sea while others have guessed that it represents the Buddhist belief that the soul crosses into the afterlife by boat. Whatever the case, it is a beautiful structure. Due to its unique design and significant age of nearly 1400 years, it is designated as a World Heritage Site. We decided to forego the tour and avoid the crowds, instead viewing it from afar.

On the hillside above, sits Senjokaku, known as shrine of “1000 mats” due to the great number of tatami that it would take to cover the floors. Built around the same time as Itsukishima Shrine, it was never actually completed. Inside the dimness were a great number of paintings depicting religious scenes, brushed on slabs of wood. Numerous wooden rice spatulas, some of which were as long as a dining room table, others used as canvasses, were displayed, apparently representative of one of the many Shinto gods. My grandparents used to have immaculately painted statutes of this and other Shinto gods displayed in the china cabinet; they have since been handed down to my Auntie.

Next to Senjokaku is a five story pagoda, brilliantly painted in bright fiery orange over white panels. I’m guessing the age of the pagoda is similar to the shrines. Modeled after Chinese designs, it rests atop the hill as if it were a crown. Though we were not able to access the inside, it supposedly contains well preserved paintings of natural scenes along with dragons and phoenixes. Originally, there were religious images displayed on the outer pillars but have since been relocated after syncretizing Buddhism and Shintoism became forbidden.

We then walked down to the village and browsed around the shops. We came across some amazing traditional wooden carvings, some being larger than life, with intricate depictions of Buddhist themes. In a few of the shops there were no staff present- not that anyone could easily walk off the island with an 8 foot Buddha hoisted over their shoulder; it was just out of the ordinary. We did manage to go into one shop that was staffed where I left with a little hand drum for my godson, Zayne.

Because the island is scared, there is a prohibition against dislodging rocks (perhaps selectively), thereby protecting the island from becom- ing developed thus, preserving its natural beauty. Beyond the shops is Momijidani Park, a quiet and peaceful place to enjoy creation. There are several small waterfalls with bridges connecting paths to the gondola at the foot of the mountains that leads to the top of the mountain.

As the ropeway crept in elevation, we could see the entire inlet in the distance, and snow slowly began to fall. The ride to the top took around twenty minutes. When we arrived, there were large packs of monkeys huddled together, trying to keep warm and dear moseying at a comfortable distance nearby. Signs were posted, requesting people not to feed the animals but to keep them wild, which I think were adhered to by the way they distanced themselves from the tourists (a good thing, in my opinion). Few people ventured up there that day, a nice change from the typically claustrophobic popular destinations. From the top, we could see for miles. It was a spectacular view- the best I’ve seen yet.

We made our way back down the mountain shortly after taking in the view from above. On the way back to the ferry, we stopped in the village and had lunch. The streets were more populated and not unlike most tourist areas I’ve visited anywhere else. The main attraction was fresh oysters, cooked over open flame grills and served with lemon. I don’t know that I’d ever tried one prior, but I decided to indulge and was pleasantly surprised. I don’t think I’d be up to eating them any other way. Afterward we made our way back to across the bay only this time, we happened to arrive at the terminal just in time to hop aboard a brand spanking new train providing for a smooth ride back into the city.

Hiroshima should be obligatory for the itinerary of every American who visits Japan. That stated, I highly recommend that those doing so include an afternoon in Miyajima, if for nothing else than to attain some solitude.

Homage to Hiroshima: Day One

In the last days of my winter vacation, Tsugumi and I made our belated trip to the city of Hiroshima. As an American, it was of the utmost to me importance that I make this trip. The timing of our arrival intentionally coincided with the holidays which lend themselves to family time and traditions, both being very important to me; the later I am just now beginning to establish. Despite my personal assessment of Christmas (see my previous entry, So this is Christmas), the last few weeks of the year, especially in the bitterly cold regions of the planet, are ideal for family togetherness and giving to those less fortunate; faith based teachings blend nicely into the atmosphere. This year’s obvious teachings of choice were centered on the importance of peace and reconciliation.

Having studied WWII in university, I arrived to Hiroshima in a mixed emotional state. Each step nearing the city combined racing images of everyday living with nuclear holocaust. As I gazed out the window of the Shinkansen, speeding overhead of neighborhoods and business centers, I couldn’t stop pondering over what the scene must have resembled sixty years ago, less than six months after world stood still, having witnessed the instantaneous incineration of a modern city. A short time later, taking in the view from the streetcar, en route from the station to our hotel, a few miles beyond, was not unlike any other: traffic congestion in the streets and the bustling on the sidewalks, though noticeably less so than those of Osaka. We soon arrived, checked our bags and were on our way.

My disposition was a mental one. As I listened to the usual chatter of passers by and watched women walking along slowly as not to outpace their preschool aged children, pushing their younger siblings’ strollers down the walkways, I imagined that on the clear August morning in which the bomb was dropped the scene must have been much the same. The skies were clear blue, the sun shining down, promising a beautiful day ahead; in a matter of moments, everything was suddenly engulfed in the fire of Hell. Near the epicenter, where we were now moseying, little had remained. Buildings, and their occupants, were crushed; trees resembled shooting flames as if burning Iraqi oil wells, while debris hammered everything in sight. People, just like us, walking down the street, were suddenly vaporized.

Our first stop, not far from our hotel, was the old Bank of Japan building, one of the few structures that survived the blast, though not so did its 42 occupants, preparing for the day ahead. Having since closed and been donated to the city in 1992, it now is used to host art exhibits. Some its rooms remain as they did prior to the bomb, though most of it has long since been renovated for normal business operation. Stepping into the granite floored lobby, the clicks of our heels eerily echoed off the cold cement walls. Atop of the rail, built to separate the tellers from the clientele, stood an angelic, yet morbid cement cast of an infant child, its skin blackened and sizzled- not unlike the roof tiles that were exposed to the extreme nuclear heat. There were numerous other articles on display that had been present inside on that fateful day of August the 6th, 1945 whose surface bore the same scars, though none sent chills through my body like the effigy of the smiling, blistered infant.

At the time of the detonation, the bank’s iron shutters were closed, protecting the second floor presidential quarters from bursting into flames. The power of the blast, however, shattered the glass panes within them, firing shards in every direction, leaving several gashes in the wooden panels across the room.

On third floor, which had to be gutted, as did the lobby, were tens of thousands of origami paper cranes, donated to the city, mostly by visiting students, others from abroad, representing in memorial the story of Sadako Sasaki, an eleven year old girl who contracted leukemia from exposure to radiation nine years earlier. Hoping she would recover if able to fold 1000 cranes (after a Japanese legend stating anyone who accom- plished the task would be granted one wish), she passed away the follow- ing year. By some accounts, she died completing only 644, her classmates having folded the remainder, placed them all in her casket. In any event, she died, innocent of any crime, though condemned just the same. Her schoolmates collected donations and succeeded in having a memorial built in her honor paying tribute to the children killed by the bomb.

As we made our way downstairs, into the basement, similar flashbacks, to a time before I was born, continued reeling away in my head. The air was cold but the space well lit. There, in several rooms, were the main exhibits, not at all as intense as the, gaze of the burnt angel forever etched in my memory. One display, a film, depicting the destruction of the current city, as if by a blast, using edited images, spliced together, seemed all too familiar. It was reminiscent of the thoughts that hovered in my brain before and since the visit. One minute, people were shopping at the market, getting on the bus, eating breakfast with their families; the next, they, along with everything around them, lay in ruin.

Not long after leaving the bank building, we crossed a bridge, leading to the Peace Memorial Museum. As with the rest of the city, there were monuments scattered about, reminding us each in their own special way “never to forget.” The first one we stopped to read about was dedicated to Dr. Marcel Junod, a Swiss doctor who headed the International Red Cross of Japan, remembered for his efforts in securing the delivery of 15 tons of medical supplies to the hospitals of the region and for treating bomb survivors within eight days of having been shown photos of the carnage. Prior to WWII, he had been assigned to Ethiopia, following the invasion by Italy, and later to Spain on the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War- a conflict George Orwell joined and wrote about in Homage to Catalonia. Dr. Junod returned to Switzerland in 1946 to write Warrior Without Weapons, documenting his personal experiences as a field delegate for the International Committee of the Red Cross. Later, he became actively involved with the United Nation’s Children’s Fund in China.

Reaching the entrance of the Museum is a clock showing the current time adjacent to two additional displays: one counting the days since the dropping of the bomb and the other counting down the days since the most recent nuclear weapons test. Entering the dimly lit space was akin to the feeling one experiences when someone boxes their ears- an unseemly pressure builds inside the walls of the skull, hearing becomes as if muffled and a subtle ring begins to sound. At the beginning of the exhibit is a 3 minute film highlighting the tour, which begins with images of the city before the bomb and then eases the viewer into the fury that was unleashed by it. One of the more desperate displays is a series of letters sent to heads of state condemning nuclear weapons testing and pleading for their abolition after the conducting of such tests. Also on display are copies of official, correspondences declassified government and newspaper clippings documenting the lead up to the decision to drop the bomb.

Although President Roosevelt had indeed, eight months before his death, suggested that the atomic bomb “might perhaps, after mature consideration, be used against the Japanese”, Vice President Truman was kept in the dark about the Manhattan Project until after FDR’s passing, April 12th, 1945, three months prior to the first successful detonation test. Once Truman was informed, he became wild with anticipation. Just days before the Soviets, who he greatly despised, were to invade Japan, he signed the order to drop the bomb. His choice in doing so was threefold. He actually went as far as to vaguely and nonchalantly disclose to Stalin that he had in his hands a “weapon of unusual destructive force”, no doubt his way of saying, “I’ve now go the upper hand over you.” At the same time, the Japanese were making arrangements to surrender, though their efforts were hampered due to the emperor’s refusal to denounce his divinity; though absurd as it was, demanding a nation to renounce its god is unthinkable. Knowing this to be the case, the US refused to negotiate. Had we done so, Truman would not have been able to demonstrate our military supremacy to the world, or to Stalin in particular, not to mention having otherwise little to show for the 2 billion tax dollars spent on development. Truman was in such a rush to show off his new toys that his scientists were unsure as to whether or not they would actually detonate (recall, there were only two in existence up that point); unfortunately, they did. Some of these statements were included in the exhibit, others I had prior knowledge of.

As we made our way upstairs, we looked at the path of rebuilding, of hope. There were rescue accounts and struggles of surviving a nuclear attack. I imagined all the people who came to attempt to ease the victims’ suffering out of great personal risk. Hospitals were largely in ruins, though the Red Cross building managed to maintain some of its facilities; supplies were obviously in short quantity as was medical staff, having also been counted among the dead. Whenever I saw an elderly person, I silently wondered if they were among the survivors. Dr. Junod, and others like him, tried desperately to do whatever they could in the service of the dying; true heroes, all of them.

The third floor of the east wing was largely about the nuclear age as it relates to science. There were demos about the number of nuclear armed countries and maps indicating where nuclear testing had been conducted. Of note was a section illustrating the arms race, which began with the Truman Doctrine, and the continuing legacy that haunts the world still. Around the corner was a display of testimonials from world leaders and religious figures, including Pope John Paul II, Mother Theresa, and the Dalai Lama, calling for world peace and solidarity. By this time, however, the closing announcement was aired over the PA system. After about three hours of taking in one of the history’s most tragic events, we decided to call it an afternoon and to return Sunday to continue our tour across to the west wing.

As we exited the building, there I was again, visited by unsettling thoughts, a natural reaction to attending such an exhibit. I made Asr shortly before sunset, saying a prayer for the victims and for an end to the many wars afflicting the world’s people. Afterwards, we went to the library on the first floor of the west wing, separated from the rest of the exhibit. It offered some well written books, critical of both sides of the war, some of which were composed strictly of primary sources. Having taken in our fare share, we left without reading much. I prayed Maghrib and then we set out on an evening walk.