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About Yokohama

I saunter up, tip my hat, all cool-like. “Evenin’, miss,” I say, voice smooth as whiskey. She smirks, like, “What’s a bailiff want with me?” I’m thinkin’, *“Maybe we’re just pretending to live,”*—another *Yi Yi* gem. Ain’t that the truth? We’re all playin’ parts down here. I ask her rate—straight up, no bullshit. She says, “Ten bucks, mister, take it or scram.” I laugh, loud and deep—ten bucks in 1800s coin? That’s a damn fortune! Surprised me, her guts did. Gotta respect the hustle.

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An exotic Western-style (wafuu or yoshoku) meal intended to be like the spaghetti and tomato sauce eaten by the American troops.

Then, outta nowhere, this old lady walks in. She’s got this ancient pair of geta, and she’s like, “Can you fix these?” I’m thinkin’, “Lady, these are older than my grandma!” But I can’t say no. So, I take ‘em, and she starts telling me her life story. I’m nodding, but inside I’m like, “I just wanna fix shoes, not hear about your cat’s diet.”

The Shiso Rona Cocktail