Rainfall

Three minutes later, Tom and Ken returned. I saw them laughing about something as they approached us, and knew that Mr. Bland had gone undiscovered.

We stepped outside and walked up the steps into the cool Omotesando evening.

“My car’s at the Blue Note,” Ken said when we were outside. He looked at Midori. “Anyone need a ride?”

Midori shook her head. “No, I’m fine. Thanks.”

“I’ll take the subway,” I told him. “But thanks.”

“I’ll go with you,” Tom said, diffusing the slight tension I could feel brewing as Ken did the math. “John, it was nice meeting you tonight. Thank you again for coming, and for the dinner and drinks.”

I bowed. “My pleasure, really. I hope I’ll have another opportunity.”

Ken nodded. “Sure,” he said, with a demonstrable lack of enthusiasm. Tom took a step backward, his cue to Ken, I knew, and we said good night.

Midori and I strolled slowly in the direction of Omotesando-dori. “Was that okay?” she asked when Tom and Ken were out of earshot.

“I had a good time,” I told her. “They’re interesting people.”

“Ken can be difficult.”

I shrugged. “He was a little jealous that you had invited someone else to tag along, that’s all.”

“He’s just young. Thanks for handling him gently tonight.”

“No problem.”

“You know, I don’t usually invite people I’ve only just met to come to a performance, or to go out afterwards.”

“Well, we’d met once before, so your guideline should be intact.”

She laughed. “You feel like another single malt?”

I looked at her, trying to read her. “Always,” I said. “And I’ve got a place I think you’ll like.”

I took her to Bar Satoh, a tiny second-story establishment nestled in a series of alleys that extend like a spider’s web within the right angle formed by Omotesando-dori and Meiji-dori. The route we took gave me several opportunities to check behind us, and I saw that we were clean. Mr. Bland had been alone.

We took the elevator to the second floor of the building, then stepped through a door surrounded by a riot of gardenias and other flowers that Satoh-san’s wife tends with reverence. A right turn, a step up, and there was Satoh-san, presiding over the solid cherry bar in the low light, dressed immaculately as always in a bow tie and vest.

“Ah, Fujiwara-san,” he said in his soft baritone, smiling a broad smile and bowing as he caught sight of us. “Irrashaimase.” Welcome.

“Satoh-san, it’s good to see you,” I said in Japanese. I looked around, noting that his small establishment was almost full. “Is there a possibility that we could be seated?”

“Ei, mochiron,” he replied. Yes, of course. Apologizing in formal Japanese, he had the six patrons at the bar all shift to their right, freeing up an additional seat at the far end and creating room for Midori and me.

Thanking Satoh-san and apologizing to the other patrons, we made our way to our seats. Midori’s head was moving back and forth as she took in the decor: bottle after bottle of different whiskeys, many obscure and ancient, not just behind the bar but adorning shelves and furniture throughout the room, as well. Eclectic Americana like an old Schwinn bicycle suspended from the back wall, an ancient black rotary telephone that must have weighed ten pounds, a framed photograph of President Kennedy. As a complement to his whiskey-only policy, Satoh-san plays nothing but jazz, and the sounds of singer/poet Kurt Elling issued warm and wry from the Marantz vacuum-tube stereo in the back of the bar, accompanied by the low murmur of conversation and muffled laughter.

“I . . . love this place!” Midori whispered to me in English as we sat down.

“It’s great, isn’t it?” I said, pleased that she appreciated it. “Satoh-san is a former sarariman who got out of the rat race. He loves whiskey and jazz, and saved every yen he could until he was able to open this place ten years ago. I think it’s the best bar in Japan.”

Satoh-san strolled over, and I introduced Midori. “Ah, of course!” he exclaimed in Japanese. He reached under the bar, shuffling things around until he found what he was looking for: a copy of Midori’s CD. Midori had to beg him not to play it.

“What do you recommend tonight?” I asked him. Satoh-san makes four pilgrimages a year to Scotland and has introduced me to malts that are available almost nowhere else in Japan.

“How many drinks?” he asked. If the answer were several, he would conduct a tasting, starting with something light from the Lowlands and progressing to the iodine tang of the Islay malts.

“Just one, I think,” I responded. I glanced at Midori, who nodded her head.

“Subtle? Strong?”

I glanced at Midori again, who said, “Strong.”

Satoh-san smiled. “Strong” was clearly the answer that he was hoping for, and I knew he had something special in mind. He turned and took a clear glass bottle from in front of the mirror behind the bar, then held it before us. “This is a forty-year-old Ardbeg,” he explained. “From the south shore of Islay. Very rare. I keep it in a plain bottle because anyone who recognized it might try to steal it.”

He took out two immaculate tumblers and placed them before us. “Straight?” he asked, not knowing Midori’s preferences.