(Though they were undercooked last time.) The coasters and matchboxes are cute, but hardly cutting-edge design. The food is better than decent-I love the dried squid with mayo, my friend Xavier likes the fried potatoes. When I’m sipping my third Manhattan and Hall & Oates comes on, I don’t pause my conversation to listen intently-I just feel at home in the music that I was surrounded by, but didn’t pay much attention to, in my 1980s youth. Who doesn’t like “Saturday in the Park”? Or “The Boxer”? Vinyl bars abound in Tokyo, specializing in niches from reggae and jazz to soul and disco, but Grandfather’s library is so mainstream it’s practically, well, basic. (Yeah, it’s smoky.) Even the bartenders are self-effacing-they’re there to make drinks and run the turntable, not listen to your troubles or perform for you the high art of mixology. Mostly, it’s just people looking to drink, talk, listen to music, and smoke. So what? Some (on each side) are hipsters, but not too many. Most of the times I’ve been there, the patrons have been overwhelmingly Japanese, but sometimes there are lots of Westerners, too. (That way I can have two or three or six.) The price is low, maybe ¥700 if I’m remembering correctly? And that is exactly what I want most of the time-a satisfying, properly made cocktail that’s not going to knock me on my ass or empty my wallet. I drink Manhattans: The house rye is cheap, the vermouth is Noilly Prat. At Grandfather’s, however, the cocktails are just fine. Even the humble highball was winning serious attention. The booze cognoscenti flocked to Glen Fiddich and Gen Yamamoto to taste their ambitious takes on drinks both classic and newfangled. Over the years that I was going to Grandfather’s, the Tokyo cocktail scene was getting tons of press. And then, finally, this spring I had an epiphany: Grandfather’s is the best bar in the world! Here’s why: Always, I had a great goddamn time (although once, and only once, it was so busy I got turned away). But over the years, I kept returning to Tokyo, and to Grandfather’s, sometimes on my own, usually with a random friend-a dad I know from preschool in NYC, a photographer who shot one of my stories, three guys who’d signed on to my New York Times Journeys tour of Japan. The drinks, the music, the hideaway atmosphere-I felt sophisticated in precisely the way I’d always wanted to feel on a trip to Tokyo, like I was hanging out with cool guys five or ten years older than me in their little clubhouse.Īt the time, though, I didn’t realize how excellent Grandfather’s truly is. In short, I fell in love with Grandfather’s Rock-n-Roll Music Inn pretty much instantly. My friend and I took a seat at a back table, and I ordered a Manhattan, which the waitress poured from its mixing cup into a petit pedestal glass in front of me. You could request individual tunes by writing the song names and artists on a napkin and passing it to the bartender. And behind the bar, racks and racks of vinyl, primarily ’70s and ’80s pop-rock of the croony, MTV-friendly variety: Lionel Richie, Chicago, Springsteen. Along the left, the bar itself, with maybe eight or ten seats. The interior was dim, but not dark, the walls and furniture made of wood. You had to know where this place was to go there! Already, I was excited-this had the feeling of, if not a secret, then a semi-secret. It was in Shibuya, right outside exit 10, and it was in a basement. One weekday afternoon somewhere in there, a friend of a friend-Jason? Donald?-invited me to a bar. Then, a wedding invitation materialized around the same time I managed to sock away a few thousand bucks, so I booked a flight, intending to spend three weeks primarily in Tokyo, Osaka, and Kyoto-the beginner’s Japan tour. But I’d never had a reason to visit Japan, nor the budget I figured I’d need to do so. It was October 2007, more than a decade after I’d started seriously traveling the world, and I’d already been to some far-flung places in Asia-Ipoh and Urumqi, Bishkek and Battambang.
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