There is a quiet, narrow street that runs alongside the train tracks close to Ebisu station.  It connects the crowded and busy neighborhood near the station to the more obviously upscale Ebisu Garden Place on top of the hill.  It’s home to a handful of modest restaurants, one of which, Osteria La Libera, is a particular favorite of mine.  It’s an easy place to miss and doesn’t do a great job advertising its presence.  Perhaps that’s just as well; it only seats fourteen people, four at the counter and ten at tables, so you’re likely to be disappointed when you show up.

I dropped by on an early November evening after buying too many books at Tsutaya’s store in Daikanyama, early enough to get a seat at the counter without waiting.  Unless you read Japanese (which I don’t), your only option is to put your faith in the sweet-natured waitresses.  “Salad.  Pasta with meat.  Barbera”.  That seemed to do the trick.  As I waited happily for my meal, immersed in the weekend edition of the Financial Times, a young and very beautiful woman, dressed in a silver grey kimono, obi, and zori, took her place, with much elegance and a little difficulty, on the bar stool next to mine.  She unfolded several paper napkins, placed them carefully into the various folds of the kimono to protect the silk fabric, and tucked into a hearty plate of pasta, all the time studying her phone.

A few minutes later, a couple, very obviously from Tokyo’s transsexual community, took their seats next to hers at the counter.  It’s hard to imagine a more diverse group but, within an hour, we were all laughing together, chatting with the waitresses and each other in very broken English and even more broken Italian.  Good wine consumed in sufficient quantities will dissolve most barriers, but I couldn’t imagine such a scene playing out in any other city.  Traditional and modern, conservative and funky – all side by side, all comfortable and easy. There’s just something about Tokyo.