Ben and I ventured into Shimokitazawa in search of a bar, with his other cousins. Seemed a straightforward in a teeming restaurant and club district, but our goal proved elusive.
Try one was, basically, a chicken place. We steeped in the vapor of a decidedly funky deep-fryer for one beer, before deciding to try again.
Try two was so bad I didn’t even think to snap a photo. “No biru,” we learned, only after paying our 400 yen cover charges to access a place that basically felt like Greg Brady’s upstairs rec room.
On my way back to our apartment, I walked by a pizzeria that I have been eying since arrival. It proved every bit as good as I’d hoped. So good, in fact, that I ate a whole pizza. At 11pm. Turns out, pizza and beer taste as good in Japan as everywhere else.
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