The Japanese Art of Being a Kid
Wash your hands, change your shoes, finish your meal...
As soon as we walked into the izakaya, both Todd and I froze like someone had just shouted HALT. I had followed the blue dot on the map through the winding temple garden to what Google translated as a casual bistro in a quiet district of Kyoto. But this izakaya was not casual as my Western brain understood it. This was not just “no shirt, no shoes, no service;” this was a teak-floored, simply elegant establishment featuring a tiny lamp with a tiny fringed lampshade on the reception desk. Standing at attention behind the desk were three geishas.
Dang it, Barb, stop thinking every Japanese woman in a kimono is a geisha!
Maybe in response to the panic starting to shake my face, three calm smiles spread in perfect unison across the faces of each geis-hostess. Six eyes sparkled like the first stars at twilight. One pressed her palms together twice in what looked like a demure clap of glee but might have been the traditional two claps to clean the energy as I had learned to do when entering a Shinto shrine. Whether she was cleaning energy we had brought in or cleaning the energy for us to arrive, the vibes were clear: they were glad to see us, two sweaty faced, sunscreen marinated, hungry Americans steaming up the entry way of their casual izakaya. Our attempts at a polite yet cheerful “arigato!” sounded to my ears like terrified goats stuck on a cliff, yet the three hostesses just smiled wider, answered us each with a musical “arigato” and slight bow, long graceful hands like ballet dancers leading us to a small room off the main entrance.
In New York, this room would be a coat check. In Kyoto, where “casual” means “elegant” and “elegant” means “Architectural Digest,” this room is the shoe changing room. I was thoroughly enjoying the Japanese custom of changing into indoor shoes or slippers in restaurants, private homes, hotel rooms, temples, lounges, bars, even certain shops (the “elegant” shops, not Tower Records Shibuya or the Pokemon Experience). The hand-clapping hostess brought us each a plastic bag and directed us towards a set of sleek lockers where we could store our shoes behind a high-tech digital PIN. Like a flight attendant directing us away from the danger of our soiled street shoes, she pointed us towards an array of freshly cleaned indoor slippers. She giggled as I selected a bright yellow pair with cartoon rabbits on top and gave me a thumbs up. She giggled again when I smiled back and gave her a thumbs up in response. She conducted our actions with graceful gestures, nods, and an occasional hmmm from her throat, leading us out of the chaos of the outside and into the oasis of the izakaya. Her job of shoes done, she passed us off to another one of the three gei-DANG IT-hostesses who herded us to the low, floor level table by a bay window overlooking the wide boulevard and torii gate across the street. Throughout Japan, especially in Kyoto, the old and the new stand side by side.
I wiggled my toes in my rabbit slippers as the third hostess introduced our waiter, dressed in a recognizable clean white shirt with sleeves rolled up the forearms and sleek black pants, who presented us with a hot towel scented with lavender. I took a luxurious cat bath right there at the table, wiping down my hands, arms, face, even my ankles around the hems of my capris and my sensible socks. Towels collected with tiny tongs and sent off to be cleaned or maybe incinerated, the waiter bowed as he presented us with the menu of the day. Both Todd and I smiled; we were the only Westerners in the izakaya and while everyone else was reading from large leather folders, ours were laminated picture sheets with three columns listing each item in Japanese, then in English, then with a photo. I pointed at a salmon teriyaki bento box and Todd opted for a yakitori and tempura plate, both with salad, miso soup, and a Japanese omelette. As we enjoyed our meal, each of the three hostesses came over only once, their hand gestures and sweet smiles clearly letting us know that while they didn’t want to disturb us, they also were very concerned about our comfort and enjoyment. All we could say in response was “arigato,” but I tried my darnedest to imbue it with gratitude and humility.
Todd and I visited Japan in the year when he turned 50 and I turned 40, but that lunch in Kyoto made me feel like a five-year-old kid. The gentle way we were steered to change our shoes, wipe our faces, wash our hands, select our food from a bunch of photos, and constantly checked on with such simplicity and concern for our enjoyment and wellbeing was a priceless lesson in accepting a kind of royal treatment that we just don’t see in the West. Maybe they lit the booth on fire as soon as we left, or maybe even today, the three hostesses remember with fondness the Western couple who stumbled into their casual izakaya on a random Tuesday afternoon in August.