Yunong S.
Google
This was three years ago. It was past midnight. In the base of an ordinary Manhattan apartment building, an unmarked door and a curtain concealed an izakaya. I stepped through, and the city fell away. I was in Sapporo.
Inside, it was loud—but not American loud. This was practiced loudness, rhythmic and intentional. Loud but you can still hear a needle dropping. Japanese men in loosened ties laughed from deep in their chests, slapping shoulders with the ease of repetition. Their voices collided like waves. Across the room, a woman spoke in a thread-thin voice that wove beneath theirs. I didn’t understand a word. It felt like watching someone else’s memory loop quietly in the background.
The chef didn’t smile. He didn’t need to.
I ordered the omakase. Dishes arrived in calm succession—chilled tofu, soft fish, a bitter broth that reminded me of a conversation I’d rather forget. The food didn’t ask to be liked. It wasn’t polished, or photogenic. It simply existed, as if made by someone who knew you were hungry, not searching.
At one point, the chef looked at me. Just once. He knew I didn’t belong. I stayed anyway.
When I stepped back outside, the curtain swayed shut behind me. Manhattan returned in a rush—cold, electric, indifferent.
