The Night Kensuke Saved My Life

DJ’s party is always a good place to meet Japanese people. Last month’s theme was “virgin honeymoon,” and featured a mural of a pumpkin-headed woman in a mini-skirt swinging an ax. Illuminated under black lights, it came closer to Halloween than honeymoon.

Unlike past events when I helped pass out flyers on the corner to suspected English-speakers, this party was a closed event. The bar was trying to keep a low profile – from the cops. Apparently they had visited on another night, which was enough to spook DJ & Co. of a follow-up at their monthly event.

Usually I don’t have a connection to the people I meet, but I shared something in common with Kensuke. He lives down the road from me, and works at an izakaya in between our apartments. He invited me for dinner two nights later.

Wisps of a goatee decorated his young face. Soft, wide almond eyes invited friendship. He seemed like the sort of person you could become friends with instantly. He dressed like an apprentice in the restaurant’s t-shirt and a tightly rolled headband that crowned his head like a halo. He accompanied the chef on frequent smoking breaks in the kitchen. In 35 years I could see him in the chef’s grease-stained apron with the frying pan in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

The chef, 59 and grandfatherly, spoke just a few words of English, so we stuck to basic Japanese. Not knowing what to order, I expressed basic preferences, namely that “I like fish and meat.” He took it from there. The boiled and bony mystery fish was disappointing, but five assorted yakitori skewers made up for it.

Kensuke brought me a raw egg to use as a dipping sauce for the meat. Raw eggs are a common and flavorful garnish in Japan. I draw the line at eating raw chicken. Away I dipped, only to have Kensuke correct me that only one of the five skewered meats was meant to be egged.

Three hours of limited Japanese conversation ensued. Kensuke asked if I wanted to finish off my meal with some sake. It went down smoother than water. The chef scolded him upon learning that he had poured from the most expensive bottle. Master wrote it off on the house.

The owner of the restaurant had one more present before I called it a night. Master reminded me of someone who would have attended Woodstock. Concert posters, t-shirts, and autographed photos lined the walls. A long, bony face sat atop a lollipop frame. A rolled-up headband also circled his head, and his lips squeezed a lit cigarette.

From a box of individually wrapped sweets, he presented me with a pastry from Sendai. He had trouble opening the plastic wrapping. At a BBQ the next day, Kensuke would tell me that Master was roaring drunk as per usual, although he hid it well. He sliced through the wrapping with scissors, and put the pastry on a plate in front of me. He turned his attention to a small packet that came wrapped with the pastry.

Master’s fingers obstructed my view, but I was pretty sure it was a dessicant, boldly labeled “DO NOT EAT” in both languages. Master cut it open.

“Excuse me, what is that?” I quivered in Japanese.

“Sauce,” he said, dumping black powder onto my white pastry. I cringed. The powder looked like mold, and had some seasame seeds mixed in. Was he trying to kill me? I hadn’t even paid the bill yet.

Although still very much a foreigner, I now see through Japanese eyes. Master’s pastry put me in a pickle. I thanked him for his generosity, and prepared to save face by stuffing mine. My gut churned at what a sense of cultural dignity moved me to eat. I could stomach the aches. Besides, I was still on summer vacation, and had a free day to burn at the doctor’s or hospital if necessary.

I stalled by nusing the last of my sake. I trusted its guidance. I reasoned turning the pastry over and picking at the untainted side, and conceding fullness before I fully poisoned myself.

My hand hovered above the plate. Just then Kensuke came out of the kitchen. He was holding the crumpled packed Master had thrown away. He politely suggested to his boss that maybe the special sauce wasn’t designed for digestion.

“Hai, hai, hai,” Master chuckled off the minor mistake, slapping me on the back. He staggered to the back of the room to fix me up with a pristine pastry.

I turned to Kensuke and mouthed thanks. The incident shook me up, not because of Master’s mistake, but at how I had nearly convinced myself to nibble around poisoned food to maintain the important Japanese concept of harmony.

Master and chef bid me farewell, encouraging me to return again. Thanks to a life-saver named Kensuke, I intend to do just that.

Hey Mr. DJ

Not one to turn down a party invitation, I met Yuji at the Roppongi station turnstiles. This area of town pulsates at night under neon signs advertising sweaty bars and decadent companion clubs. A haunt of tourists, expats, military and the Japanese who wanna party with them, I avoid Roppongi’s $9 beers and cheesy music at all costs.Yet Yuji’s friend was DJing, and I figured it would be a good chance to hang out outside of his father’s tiny restaurant where we had met. I’m glad I made the exception. Yuji’s limited English could not prepare me for what type of party to expect. To play it safe, I wore a button down shirt stuffed into slacks. I should have remembered that Japan doesn’t have a dress code.

Yuji (right) – in baggy pants, a grey hooded sweatshirt and wool cap – led me in the opposite direction from the bright lights. We made a Family Mart run to grab drinks to finish off en route. The stairwell descending into the basement bar was dizzying. Graffiti lined the walls down to the bottom where a lanky DJ (center) welcomed me like an old friend, and handed out a CD with his R&B remixes.

The bonenkai wasn’t starting for another half hour. This marvelous Japanese concept is known as “year-forgetting parties.” (This being back in December). Momo was already forgetting. He wobbled around the room in a large reindeer headgear. Yuji meanwhile posted flyers with the DJ lineup around the bar.

I was the only foreigner in attendance, which is how I like it. It feels more cultural in that lost in translation way. I get C-list celebrity attention, and don’t get annoyed with other foreigners who think they are god’s gift to Japan for being proficient in the language.

I did, however, feel conspicuously overdressed among the music video wannabes in oversized off-brand tracksuits, dangling chains and sunglasses – sometimes a sign of gang membership here. Then again, it’s hard to consider someone wearing size 28 pants as tough, especially with a Louis Vuitton wallet poking out of the back pocket.

Sometimes they’d catch me staring with arced eyebrows at their outfits, but as a foreigner I can get away with it by falling outside of the Japanese social rubric. A smile and head nod turns embarrassment or confrontation into an icebreaker.

Such was the case with Kobe. I forget his real name, but he was wearing the basketball star’s jersey with matching Lakers cap and a fake gold chain that read “chain gang.” This Yokohama boy was no Bay Star. He looked the least likely of anyone in the room to play a sport or be in a gang. Yet he was eager to make my acquaintance, and summoned his friend Nao to join us.

Long hair poked out of Nao’s trucker’s hat that read “No problem. I love working my butt off for no money.” His sweatshirt was two sizes too big, and he had a goofy grin like he had been sniffing too much glue. He was an older but just as immature version of my students. He even lived in the same neighborhood. Astonishingly, he too, had wandering hands. I’m beginning to think this is a latent cultural phenomenon.

Like most people I met that night, Nao had a curiosity for English. First about translations for private parts, and then about his hat. “Butt” was easy enough, but the expression wasn’t. What did working hard have to do with a butt? he wanted to know. Giving up in frustration, I asked to borrow the hat to wear to the next monthly teachers’ meeting.

I also had trouble translating “Shat,” the artist’s name on the flyer advertising the evening’s party. This being a country where M-Shit is a popular punk rocker (M stands for Mohawk. Shit, for talent).

Easier to explain was a baby blue Columbia varsity jacket, purchased second-hand and turning baby brown from a patchwork of stains. Kousuke was startled to learn that Columbia was a university in New York. I was startled to see it personalized with “Christie.”

Unable to translate songs titles like “Return of the Mack” and “Bug A Boo” or lyrics like “Can I have it like that?…You got it like that,” Nao suggested that we not pay bar prices and instead drink on the sidewalk outside Family Mart. While not illegal, it felt amateur…and freezing, this being winter.

Back inside, Momo (right) was slumped over, naked without his headgear and neglecting the hot plate simmering with pre-cooked hot dogs on sticks for sale. More people had arrived, and Yuji facilitated introductions.

The underground setting bred intimacy. The vibe was friendship, not meat market, which is the selling point of foreigner hangouts in nearby Roppongi. Everyone seemed to know one another like we were in a party in a friend’s basement party.

The dance floor got crowded. Passionate DJs moved their friends with homespun music. In typical Japanese style, no one was going overboard. No bumping ‘n’ grinding, just bopping in place. Fly swatter-like arm extensions towards the DJ signaled approval. Some added their own beat with two drums on hand for audience participation.

In between DJ sets, live acts took the stage. Japanese rappers wearing puffy jackets and unbent MLB lids sang a good first number. Of course, I didn’t understand a word, but the same goes for American rappers.

It was refreshing to be with an unpretentious crowd enjoying one another’s company to amid good soundtrack. No drama, just a girl in a Santa costume passing out free shots of fizzy tequila. It was also DJ’s birthday, and at the end of his set he was presented with a cake, which everyone devoured using a communal spoon.

Santa and reindeer girls made a festively adorable duo, Nao was a one-man comedy show, but DJ was my favorite. He didn’t know much (any?) English, but his smile was contagious. The turntables electrified his blood. I could only feel excited watching him bounce around the DJ booth waving records in the air. He hooked me on “The Drive” by Headnodic & The Procussions and a Chemical Brothers remix of “Galvanzie.” Rock on, DJ.

This being a monthly party, I’ve gone several times since December’s debut, hence pictures in different clothes. The flowers were from Maki for my birthday. Viewers will be pleased to know that I’ve since done away with the long hairdo. I don’t know what I was thinking other than that it was winter and my head was cold.