If there ever was a stereotypical Japanese afterwork-bar-restaurant it was the one we were at. ‘Kanpai’ could be heard over the din of conversations, and every seat was occupied. There was a guy on a date with a delicately pretty girl sipping from an impossibly small beer glass, that was refilled by her boyfriend every time she looked away.  Though, by the looks of her amused smile, I am sure she was aware and welcomed it. To their left was a boss and two subordinates having drinks after work. Sharing our counter was a newly established couple with his mother. Then two old friends at the bar sipping beer and talking about the old days. Finally, a table of 5 mixed-aged co-workers. Then there was the two of us. Sure, the chef’s choice sushi was good along with the assorted tempura, but it was the Asian Norman Rockwell-esque painting we were living in that made this a lifelong memory. Did we have a little extra beer due to the contagious spirit? Yes, that could have happened. Was the ale so cold that I formed beer-cicles on the corners of my mouth when I drank? Almost. Though I think it was the bustling intimacy of the bar that made it work. If the 16 of us were in a bigger room, it just wouldn’t have the same atmosphere as being piled on top of each other. We were packed in and feeding off of each other’s energy. The noise level continually ebbed, flowed and would subside then crescendo again. The two servers and bartender kept the energy going, constantly bringing food and drinks to all. There was something rhythmic and beautiful about this. Instinctively, the moment I sat down I felt the need to order a beer…. in Japanese. Beelu Nee-Han. That got a smile from the elderly Japanese proprietor. My first words uttered in Japan were “I want Japanese beer.” I suspect it is not every day he hears an old white guy properly ordering a beer.