The Mother of Shimokitazawa

by Scott Moyes (New Zealand)

Making a local connection Japan

A giant lizard is clinging to the ceiling. That's the first thing you notice. It's carved out of wood and hangs low enough to sip your saké. It's probably even had a nibble on a nuke, just like Godzilla. That's how enormous it is. The lizard is something of an icon. It lurks in the dimly lit corners of Mother's Ruin, a cosy underground bar nestled in Tokyo. It's piercing gaze has seen a lot over the past four decades, from casual after-work drinks to raucous wedding receptions. The most intriguing thing it's seen, at least for my family, is the first time my uncle David met my aunty Taki. She was the welcoming smile behind the bar, and he was the cheeky grin learning to speak Japanese. The rest is history, so to speak. Their children are now my cousins and their adventures have become a blueprint for my own. Finding Mother's Ruin is an experience in itself. It's buried in the charming chaos of Shimokitazawa, a trendy little slice of Tokyo. With narrow streets and secret alleys, you're probably going to get a little lost. Even Google Maps seems to get a bit of a headache. It doesn't matter. This is the most illuminating place in the world to lose your bearings. You've got time to wander through a smorgasbord of thrift shops, street art, and coffee corners. It's a total breath of fresh air. Other districts of Tokyo can be an assault on the senses, but this is more of a waltz through tradition. Eventually, you'll ask for directions. You might know a couple of words of Japanese, and that's all you need. An expressive pair of hands goes a long way and, in this instance, towards a spiral staircase descending into darkness. It wasn't my first time in Mother's Ruin. Ironically, the other time was inside my mother's belly. It's a story I get told often, as though I might inexplicably remember small details of being in a foreign country before I had even taken my first breath. But the place truly is breath-taking, and not in a way that brings with it a horde of tourists. The bar itself is dominated by a large library of liquor. An imposing shelf of every spirit you could hope for. Many of them are double-ups, and that's because the regulars are so regular that they don't have to share. I start with a beer, and what a treat this is after trekking all around Tokyo on a sweltering afternoon in August. I can't resist. I tell the bartender. "My aunty used to work here, 30 years ago. It's where she met my uncle." And that was it. That's all it took. A phone call was made and in a matter of moments, Chizuko appears inside the bar. Her bar. The delight that radiates from her every gesture is something I'll never forget. Chizuko knows my uncle David and aunty Taki well, as though it was only yesterday they had bonded over an evening tipple. We sit down together. She apologises for her shaky English. I assure her my Japanese is far worse. And so begins a night of unlikely reminiscing and belly laughter that I'll treasure forever. We demolish plate after plate of sizzling pork gyoza and slurp merrily from the homemade ginger whiskey. I show her pictures of my aunty and uncle and she chuckles heartily, probably at the silver beard David now owns. Against all odds, Facebook has proven to be a blessing. It's not long before I'm introduced to the rest of the family. Chizuko's daughter, Haruna, now manages the bar and is expecting a child of her own. I even say hello to one of the patrons, an elderly woman who has been sipping plum wine in the same watering hole since the 80s. The night slowly burns away, and there becomes a point when I either need to get the last train home or sleep in this very spot. But I feel grateful, not just for the encounter but for getting an authentic taste of legendary Japanese hospitality. Maybe that's why the lizard is so fat?