I went back to 福ふくtonight.

If you missed last week’s post, I took a chance and dove into a small izakaya in my neighborhood on a night when I was feeling very down and depressed.

I was greeted by some kind folks and in a way I didn’t really expect—basically, as one of the “regulars.” I decided to go back this week, as the “mama” of the establishment had talked about getting a bottle of Scotch for me, and a new friend, Jun, had really seemed keen on meeting up again.

It was raining hard tonight. Icy, cold, blasting-in-your-face-and-stinging November...(god, there’s nothing to do but invoke Axl Rose and say it)..rain. Oh wait. It’s December. Anyhow.

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I came in to find Jun-chan waiting for me again, and the mama, half-surprised, half-expecting, my presence. I sat down and ordered a whisky, straight. She hadn’t bought the bottle of Scotch, but oh, well. I figured I needed to practice my Japanese, and these folks seemed sweet enough anyway. I adjusted my sniffer and managed to extract some malt-y enjoyment from the deep glass of well-whisky.

A new patron was there, right next to me, explaining how this and that linguistic convention came to be, and he seemed to know what the hell he was talking about, so I listened curiously. Turns out his mother is Chinese, and he is quite the internationally minded fellow. By the end of the night I knew why Chinese people tend to talk loud, why Shochu is similar to whisky, and why, although folks in foreign countries might try to make us feel at home by making our favorite dishes for us, there will never be anything like having a home-cooked meal in your home country.

All this was broken up when Jun exclaimed loudly (the effects of the shochu?) that the nama-ebi (fresh shrimp) smelled like my dick.

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The night went on. Yamazaki, the master of the bar (here, “master” delineates ownership), talked of old American movies, fine local wines, and frequency of sex in marriage after children. Your wife’s only 43?! You must be alright.

June-chan kept insisting I was hentai, to which I replied time and time again, ”Hentai kana~” (“Maybe I am, after all...”)

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I imbibed a lot of alcohol tonight. Before leaving, Jun bought a bottle of wine.

The wine was called Miyuki-no-bana. I told the master that Miyuki was my wife’s name, and he and mama exclaimed, surprisingly, how it was a really beautiful name. I think so, too, but the way they went on about it was neat.

As I paid my bill and left for the door, the half-Chinese Kameda-San turned to me and said, in a thick Japanese accent, “Good job.” I had to chuckle. I’d done nothing but drink and eat and here I was being saluted with a farewell of respect and honor for the hard work I had accomplished. I had shook hands with Jun, whose eyes burned with an other-worldly longing. “I’ll meet you again next week,” he had said.

“Okay.”

I paid my bill, said “goodnight,” and left.

I’ve never been accepted like this here. Maybe because I’ve never taken the chance alone. Last week, however, I did, and I think it was an excellent—inevitable?—choice on my part.

Anyway, it’s time for bed. Thanks for reading.

~KafkA

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Graham Smith is a Voluntaryist activist, creator, and peaceful parent residing in Niigata City, Japan. Graham runs the "Voluntary Japan" online initiative with a presence here on Steem, as well as Facebook and Twitter. (Hit me up so I can stop talking about myself in the third person!)