As the train rustles above, I sit at my wooden table, lay back against textured silver pillows, and sip on red, red wine. For all I know, I could be at home, in NYC. But I’m still in Tokyo – Jiyugaoka to be exact.
A mix of all the right elements is all it takes to recreate a place, a memory. But a missing piece always brings you right back to where you are. In the present. Far, far from home.
Bibliotheque. The newest restaurant in my stretch of town is a reminder of home and a reminder that this is not home, not really anyway. I love it, absolutely. But even love isn’t enough in the end, is it?
The interior is classic, sauve. Black chairs, light wood tables. Silver accents. Concrete floors. Blackboards on walls and bare bulb lights hanging down on black cords. Dim lighting, low music. Menus with translucent pages and hazy photos. Steep prices and biting wine. Skimpy bagna cauda. Yet the atmosphere compensates a lot for the parts that lack. And the tiramisu at the table next to me looked amazing, if that counts for something.
Though I must say, 650 yen for an iced coffee is preposterous. Does it have gold flakes in it? Shots of rum? Magical powers? I can never justify a coffee for that price. Equally priced wine? I can deal with that. At least I’ll sleep well.