The Samboa

Well, you have to love a bar that asks you to remove your hat when you sit down.  The Samboa Bar, established 1918.  Tiny, quiet, smoky and oozing history.  I am almost compelled to visit places like this, no matter what city I'm in.

There is a drunk passed out on the bar when I arrive.  I think of the bartender Nick in It's a Wonderful Life after George is unborn: "We serve hard drinks in here for men who want to get drunk fast."  This is a proper whiskey bar.  There aren't any other spirits to be seen.  There also aren't any other gaijin to be seen.  The Samboa is off the sightseeing trail even though it sits in the Teramachi arcade where every third shop seems to cater to the tourist.  It takes a bit of courage to push open the opaque glass door to see what lies beyond.

Every bar has its thing - a style, a theme, an atmosphere.  The Samboa has an incredible collection of bottle openers that cover almost every surface.  There is no TV, no jukebox or stereo, no newspapers or magazines, but there are hundreds of bottle openers to study, from the simple to the ornate, the contemporary to the antique.

The barman wears a white shirt, a tie and an apron in the tradition of the American bartender 100 years ago.  "Good Japanese speaking" is the compliment I receive from him when I leave.

2016 Addendum

The Japanese are an absurdly honest people.  It is incredibly rare to feel cheated or conned in this country.  But...there are unscrupulous folks even here.

I have been to the Samboa half a dozen times since I first posted this more than a year ago.  Am I regular?  No.  But I guarantee I am one of the few gaijin who speak any Japanese to the barman.  Thus, he knows who I am.

This evening, seeking refuge from a fierce summer shower, I popped into the Samboa.  I was somewhat dismayed to see the Japanese were outnumbered by Western tourists.  I ordered a martini and listened to the rain.  After a second martini I decided it was time to leave.  

"Okanjo onegai shimasu." 

"¥‎3,100."

"He?  ¥‎2,100?"
"¥‎3,100."

Wait a minute.  I can get a martini for that price at '21', the exceedingly charming if vaguely exclusive New York bar that might very well have invented this cocktail.

Maybe my martinis were paying for the new 21st Century toilet the Samboa finally installed.  I don't know.  But the grumpy barman has seen the last of me.  Hello Dolly, just a few blocks away, makes an infinitely superior martini at a reasonable price.  And they wouldn't dare serve it without an olive and a smile.