Back in early 2015 during the second half of my first exchange year in Tokyo, I was walking with a friend around Aoyama and Omotesando in Shibuya. It’s been so long that I had to go on Google Maps, because I forgot the name Omotesando in the same way I forgot the names of casual acquaintances I haven’t seen since the start of the pandemic. On our way, we discovered a small open area with several food trucks, but what caught my attention was not the smell of fresh food, but the sound of a tune that felt strangely familiar. It came from a tiny two-story house on the same open area. It was a stylish bar operated by an elderly lady whose style reminded me of the Taisho period’s Modern Girl fashion. There were seats on the roof as well, although it was hard for me to imagine how stairs would fit into such a tiny building. I didn’t enter nor did I revisit the place later. At the time, I didn’t remember the name of the tune, but the whole incident inspired me to come up with a short story I ultimately never wrote.

The Taishō Café