(Originally posted August 28, 2007)
I have never seen the movie An American in Paris. It’s true.
I can hear the gasps from some of the readers, suggesting that what they
really want to shout is, “Say it isn’t so!”
But it is. I know it’s a classic
and famous movie, which suggests it has a good storyline. But in terms of sheer circumstance and
coincidence, it ain’t got nothing on us!
My birthday, by the time it
arrived, did not much feel like my birthday.
My family had arranged a couple of “group birthday” shindigs, so we all
had our share of birthday sugar-rushes before I left the states. Sean was already in Japan during these
celebrations, though, so this time around it was “just us.”
Sean has a rather remarkable record
(and that’s a nice case of alliteration, I must say!) for arranging truly
spectacular birthdays. It’s great at the
same time that it’s annoying, because I can never really hope to match
him. Plus, now he’s set the bar for
himself, too!
He had to work during the day, so
for the first time I took the train and subway into downtown by myself. After forgetting to transfer when I should
have, I ended up one stop down on the line.
Mentally, I’m running this conversation through my head: “Should I get off? Or should I stay on until a bigger
station? I know that a new train will
come through soon, and it has to be a ‘local’, so it will stop where I need it
to… but…” Meanwhile, I’m anxiously opening my fan partway and snapping it shut again
in what has now developed into a nervous habit.
Anyway, I end up getting off. The
station was tiny, so there was really no English or even “romanji” (the term
for writing Japanese in the western alphabet) to let me know where to go. So, I employed a little bit of common sense,
crossed to the opposite platform, and was filled with relief when approximately
two minutes later a train pulled up to take me back to where I should have
transferred in the first place.
Back at Tanigami station, there was
a train waiting. Tanigami receives three
different train lines regularly on any given day. What I wanted was one of the trains that
would take me through the mountain to downtown.
There was one waiting, but it didn’t have any of the names on it I
thought it should have, and it was green.
I thought I wanted brown. It
turns out that WAS the train that I was supposed to take, but because Sean was
also traveling in the subway, he couldn’t reply to my email in time because he
didn’t have cell reception. So, I missed
that train and had to wait twelve minutes for another. To make a long story short, I eventually made
it downtown intact, although still nervously snapping my fan back and
forth. Because of the detours, it wasn’t
any surprise that Sean beat me, so he met me at the turnstiles on the way out
of the station and led us on our way.
Although Kobe is one city, its
geographical boundaries are huge. For
instance, we live in Hanayama Higashimachi, which means “Flower Mountain
East”. It’s considered sort of its own
town, within its own “sub-county” or sub-district, but it’s all Kobe City—even
if we literally do live on the other side of the mountain. Thus, downtown is called Sannomiya. Sean was taking me through Sannomiya to
Kitano-cho, which is a neighborhood where many foreigners have settled, and
thus it’s a mecca for western food.
There’s even a disco called “Diva Station” that says “80’s music!”,
featuring Soul Train and a black couple with afros. I think they need to check their decades.
Our trek ended at a quaint little
Mediterranean style villa, complete with stonework and tile roof. It looked like quite the atmospheric Italian
Restaurant. I was excited. It was closed. Permanently.
So, with plan A down the tubes, we
began to wander. I was very thirsty, but
in Japan this is never a problem, because there are vending machines every
fifty feet. They sell a variety of
drinks, including hot coffee and cold beer, but hardly ever is there food on
offer. So, we got some water and
continued our wanderings through the neighborhood. Sean stopped to look at the menu display
outside another charming stone building, this one fashioned after the Victorian
style. Being satisfied with the dinner
menu, we went in.
Victorian indeed! A very pleasant woman wearing a modest
Victorian-esque costume led us to our table. Which was the size of a coffee
table. With two Victorian parlour
chairs. The menu, elegantly bound with wood, was of dessert, tea, and coffee
only. A white waistcoated waiter who
looked like he was about 16 (which probably means he was 28) served us hot
towels to refresh ourselves and placed trivets and water in front of us. Sean and I looked at each other. This is Japan. We couldn’t just walk out because we were
wrong. So, Sean had a $10.00 Vienna
coffee (which he said was excellent. I
tasted it and he was right.) and I had a “Milk Tea Royale” for $8.00. Also excellent. Better be, for that price. So, with our freshly cleaned hands, we sat in
quiet Victorian elegance, complete with dark wood panels, classical music,
velvet upholstery, and fine china. And
then we moved on.
Still needing something to eat (and
by this time I’m getting just the teensy-tiniest bit grouchy), we went up the
block, attracted like moths to the twinkling lights of a little restaurant on
the corner. It turned out to be “Bistrot
Café de Paris”, and after reviewing their
outdoor menu, we assured ourselves that they did indeed serve dinner and not
just coffee. We looked at each other and
shrugged. Might as well.
The café was cute, and to all
appearances authentic. A tall gaijin
gentleman met us at the door. He started
out in Japanese, we answered in Japanese, he continued in English, and I
thanked him in French. To which, of
course, he replied in his native French.
He was really quite charmant. We took a table outside, which again seems
nothing short of nuts in retrospect. We
had just consumed hot drinks, walked up a hill, and chosen to sit outside in
the 90+ degree heat. Yeah. Obviously, when faced with an air-conditioned
café or sweating our buns off and being eaten alive by mosquitoes, it’s a
no-brainer. Outside it is.
The menu was in Japanese and
French. I told Sean that if he read the
Japanese I would read the French, and between the two of us, we ought to know
what we’d be getting. The proprietor was
French who spoke English and Japanese, and our waitress was Japanese who was
learning English. We muddled along
fine. What we ended up getting was the
best meal I have had in a very, very long time.
Our appetizer was thin, delicate,
salty “jambon” (think prosciutto ham, only better) topping juicy bits of
seasonal fruit. Our entrée was Couscous Royale.
Hot, nutty couscous with a hint of butter, accompanied by the best
tomato-based stew in existence. The
vegetables were fresh, the spice and flavor was delicate and perfect, and the
meat was tender in a melt-in-your mouth sort of way that the French claim only
they can do. Maybe they’re right.
The only speck of imperfection in
the evening came when our drinks didn’t arrive.
We told the proprietor, and he rectified the situation, and when we
turned down dessert, he brought one out for free anyway, while he chatted us
up.
Originally, because of my three
words of French, he thought we were Canadian.
Astonishingly, once he found out we were American, he continued to like
us anyway. He lived in London for six
years (thus his English), and has lived in Japan for seventeen (thus his
Japanese). Among all his other advice
for us? “Don’t stay heere for seventeene
years. No. One, two, maybe five, zis is good. Seventeene? No. Not good.” All in all, as I have already said, he was
quite charming.
And the dessert. Who would have thought that Earle Gray Mousse
would sound good? It was superb! Hints of jasmine and lavender, nutmeg and
vanilla… light and rich at the same time… it was something I never would have
picked. It was perfect.
The whole night, amidst all of its
stumbling, circumstance, misunderstandings, and coincidences, was perfect. Again.
As usual. As always. Damn.
Now I have to start planning for Sean’s birthday.
We’re planning to visit our French
friend again on our anniversary. Maybe
we’ll wrangle another dessert.
~~~~~
I don't think we ever did go back for our anniversary. However, we did take Taketani-Sensei, (who you will meet later) as sort of a thank-you dinner. The charming proprietor that I remembered from our previous visit seemed much changed. Same guy, but his charm was mysteriously missing. Sean and I ordered the same cous cous dish (why mess with a good thing?), and took pity on Taketani when he ordered a Bordeaux wine. Applying the English rules of pronunciation, he pronounced it Bore-dohx, as would anyone unfamiliar with French. He also pronounced it "bistrot," just as it was spelled, and we spent a confusing 10 minute conversation with him trying to explain that French was full of words whose last consonant was silent… unless the NEXT word started with a vowel, in which case the silent consonant suddenly sprang to life. His eyes got wider and wider until he finally ran his hands frustratedly through his hair and said, "You know what? I'm just going to stick to English."
C'est la vie. (the "t" is silent.)
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