Satan in The Auditorium

Three cocktails in Tokyo

There’s a small bar in Tokyo, not far from Ueno Park, tucked away on a little side street. It’s not long past 5 o’clock, on an unseasonably cool day in early summer. Outside, the sky is a dull grey, not quite sure if it wants to subside or turn into something more threatening. I watch a slow trickle of suited men step out after work and into the rain, holding their umbrellas at a slant so they don’t get snatched by the wind. Many of them no doubt have a long commute ahead of them, but my thoughts are far from such matters these days. From this distance, the humdrum of office life almost takes on a glamourous sheen, and I wonder what it would be like to be swept up in the whirl of city life here – the sort of life I’ve left behind. But these are just passing thoughts.

Here in The Auditorium, heavy metal music plays overhead, while a film quietly plays in the corner. Like many of Tokyo’s famous music bars, it’s a tiny space with just enough room to sit around the bar, stacked floor to ceiling with vinyl records. The shelves are heaving with over 300 whiskies, and the air is laced with cigarette smoke. Such bars are dedicated to the pleasure of listening and drinking, with music and whisky taking centre stage together. More often than not, the genre of choice is jazz. We came for jazz, but the music played here is more eclectic, encompassing classic rock, metal, grunge and classical too (not dissimilar to my own music library). It has a lengthy menu of signature cocktails inspired by famous songs, from Tom Waits’ “Blue Valentine” to The Beatles’ “Across the Universe”. But there’s one that catches my attention immediately. What else can I do but order a “Sympathy for the Devil”?

It arrives, flaming red, in a highball glass, topped with a sprig of rosemary like a feather in a cap. Right on cue, the heavy metal playlist switches to the Rolling Stones. The first few bars are instantly recognisable. Percussive, samba-like rhythms on the conga drum, like the rap of sharp heels; the shake of the shekere, hard beads against hard gourd; Mick Jagger’s strange, bird-like vocalisations portending nothing good. On my lips and tongue I taste the sharp zing of chilli, followed by a punch of heady, smoky whisky. Ardbeg, naturally, intensely thick and oily. It’s counterbalanced by bracingly sharp lemon and ginger ale, with botanical notes of absinthe woven through. This is a song full of demonic energy, but there’s nothing dark about it. It’s lively and playful, tongue firmly in cheek. The cocktail is similarly jaunty. A warm fire spreads as Jagger takes us through the devil’s time-hopping history of civilisation, from the crucifixion of Christ to the assassination of the Kennedys – that is, right up to the present moment, given the song was recorded in 1968. Jagger wrote the lyrics after Marianne Faithfull lent him a copy of Mikhail Bulgakov’s fantastical satire The Master and Margarita, published posthumously in 1967. His characterisation of the devil owes everything to Bulgakov’s genteel and well-heeled Satan, asking to be treated with “courtesy, sympathy and grace”. If you’re up to no good, you may as well do so in style.

After Satan comes the White Rabbit, a beautiful cocktail dressed in a glistening coat of absinthe cream, flecked with pink peppercorns. Overhead, the record shifts, the twang of ominous bass echoing through the bar. Military snare drums, a discordant Arabesque melody shimmering this way and that like an unfurling caterpillar. Grace Slick’s vocals are odd, intense, almost operatic. Everything about the song feels unclear, ambiguous, but the cocktail itself is powerfully fragrant and inviting – wormwood, anise, white chocolate and pepper. Fragrant and beguiling, it says “come closer, just one more step”, but that’s all it takes to fall down the rabbit hole. We’re drifting back to San Francisco 1967. Grace Slick, playing mother, warns us of the dangers of chasing rabbits. Go ask Alice, she says, but Alice is nowhere to be seen. Instead, there’s a cocktail on a table saying drink me. Carrot cake and white chocolate, waves of absinthe cream so thick you could eat it with a spoon. Just a hint of garden rosemary, and that delicious whisper of pink pepper. All brought together with a hit of gin. As the song builds towards its crescendo, I find myself licking the cream off the sides of the glass, not quite ready to return to a world of logic and reason.

But there are still delightful surprises to be found in the real world. The final one arrives in a small porcelain jar with a lid, resembling a sugar jar. It is an ornate thing, adorned with the bright, intricate patterns of Imari ware. There is something pleasing about lidded jars, a quiet theatre in the way they conceal, and reveal, what lies inside. When the spiky-haired bartender places it in front of me, at first, I think there has been a mistake. But when I lift the lid, inside is a rich, amber-coloured liquid around a beautifully rough rock of ice. The Tokyo Old Fashioned combines 1980s Suntory Old whisky with Denki Bran – a golden brandy liqueur created by Denbei Kamiya, the owner of Kamiya Bar, in the nearby Asakusa district in the late 19th century. Alongside it, there’s yuzu syrup and shiso bitters, adding a bright citrus edge and herbal character. It is intensely perfumed and concentrated. The porcelain feels cool between my palms, and there’s an interesting cohesion between the choice of vessel and the liquid within it. Taste and touch. The smooth texture of the rim, the way it sits between my lips; the surprise of a familiar cocktail in a delicious new guise. I could keep drinking it all night.

I imagine myself leaving the office on a day just like today, stepping into the cool summer rain. Taking the familiar turns to this little bar on the corner. I’d have just one cocktail, perhaps while reading a book, waiting for dinner, or simply listening to whatever music they happen to be playing on that day. I am a complete stranger, but I’d love nothing more than to stay here, where everything is electric, dazzling and new. There’s no song pairing for this one – the cocktail itself is an ode to the city.