I am sitting at a bar in Japantown. My friend and I kill the time until our reservation at a nearby Ramen restaurant is ready. At the counter, a warm old man guides us through the tens of bottles on display behind him. To his left there are many different types of sake. To his right, a similar number of what is mostly Japanese beer. We both decide to go with beer, but to the man’s follow-up question about taste preferences I choose a light Kawaba while my friend picks a rice counterpart. The place is small, with a few tables lined on each side of the entrance. For now, most people sit at the bar with us. The restaurant is fairly empty, and most customers drink, some snacking on some appetizers. To my right there is a guy in his late twenties or early thirties. He gives that energy of someone looking for a moment for themselves. He sighs every now and then, perhaps letting off some stress. I can only guess, and guessing would tell more about myself and the caricature I make of him than the real person. He splits his attention between his drink, the TV, and our conversation with what I presume is the owner of the establishment. All the three TVs I can see are showing an Anime. I believe it is the first time I have seen such a thing at a bar, but I guess there is no more obvious place to see such a thing than at a Japanese bar. The old man takes the two beers that we had chosen from the shelf, and hands them over to a young guy, who opens them after taking care of two customers that had just arrived to dine in. The beers are surprisingly cold and we are left wondering if the shelves behind the bar kept the bottles cool. We had been talking for a quarter of an hour when I got a text message from the restaurant saying our table was ready. My friend signals for the check and the old man approaches us with it and clears the empty bottles in front of us. By now the guy to my right had left. We are both feeling the beers, even though we just had one and none of them were particularly heavy. Perhaps the percentage on the label has a different meaning when it comes to Japanese beers. Or something is off with this bar. Perhaps we are simply becoming lightweights. Nonetheless, we exchange a few pleasantries with the host. My friend tells him that we’d come back again every time I am in town, and the old man interprets it as if I am traveling from far away. Now it gets even significantly more interesting, since without much hesitation the old man asks whether I am Japanese and coming from Japan. We both lose our composure and look at each other astonished. We quickly say, in-between some grinning, that I simply live less than an hour away, and that in fact I am not Japanese. We leave with a nice episode to remember and share. We will come back again. Smart move (?), old man.
PS: While driving back home my mind kept going back to this episode. I wouldn’t ever think that someone would look at me and see any semblance of Japanese traits. Of course, I am used to people guessing Hispanic, which is one of the most clear guesses based on my facial traits and the cultural and social context of the San Francisco Bay Area. I could even understand if someone threw a somewhat Middle Eastern guess. Perhaps even Indian. But Japanese?
さようなら
(Sayōnara)