The water here tastes like the sweaty folds of a dog’s tired body, but that’s just the flaw that keeps the mind alive. Everything else is just sensory perfection.
I see: a tenderly lit Tokyan twilight and the gracious smiles of a hostess who, despite an uncrossable Cumberland language gap, I’ve come to think of as Friend.
I hear: some Britney, some Fugees, some Macy Gray. Some innocent pre-mess ‘90s Ameripop.
I smell: the menu blend of a favorite nosh spot, the savory scents of anticipation.
I touch: the smooth pleasing grain of my hashi and the comfortable curve of my sperkling wine glass. The bottle, I’m told by my charming hostess, will easily morph to “to go” as I wish.
I taste: an atheist’s conundrum. The nostalgic dreams of my future.
I love this place. Sabai Sabai Thai, y’all.