If there’s a rattier bar in Japan, I’ve yet to find it. But I give the place points for being somewhere that patrons can shuffle to in sweatpants and get a cup of shochu with hot water for 100 yen.
So last Saturday, I got up at noon, threw on my best Adidas sweatpants, and shuffled down to the rattiest bar in the nation for a 250-yen beer. Hey, I like to treat myself.
The yakuza boss was already there, sitting at the head of the table as usual. That’s if you can call a sheet of plywood atop plastic crates a table.
“It’s my 81st birthday,” he announced proudly.
“I know,” I said. “That’s why I dressed up.”
Continue reading “A Japanese Birthday Party for the Yakuza Boss”