Drunkbread

It was Saturday night and Russell and I were drunk, with friends.  It was just like old times, except we were in Tokyo, with people we just met, expats, no less.

Somehow the waiting list had been opened up to accommodate those of us who signed up late for the Cakebread Wine dinner at TAC (Tokyo American Club).  All of us seemed to be seated at the same table, the rowdy table.  

Generally I try to avoid all events at TAC due to my perception, now corrected, that all TAC members are snobs and unfriendly, unless you can further their ego or career. But this was different.  Could I have been wrong?  I was wrong once, but I was mistaken.  Was it wrong to assume that just because I smile and say hi and nobody else does it back, they're all snobs?   It seemed like a good assumption at the time.

But there we were in a room full of strangers, all vying for another pour of the Cakebread Sauvignon Blanc, when I spotted a pretty blond woman struggling with her phone, her purse and her wine.  She didn't have enough hands.  I offered to hold her wine.  Big of me, right?  Of course Russell suspected I was after her drink.  As if?!

She was a newbie, she and her husband had just moved here, and they didn't have any kids.  No way!  The few expats I've met all have kids and we have none, well, except for Russell.  But he doesn't go to the International School so I find I have nothing in common with the expat moms, plus I get the feeling they look at any woman without kids suspiciously.  Course, I'm not insecure at all.

She was nice and friendly and soon enough we were standing there talking amicably with her husband and his boss and we all had more wine.  It ended up they were not assigned to our table so we agreed to meet for drinks afterwards.

Our table was all expats, all American, except for the unlucky Japanese guest of one of the TAC members. By the second course our table was showing its true American colors, loud, raucous and merry.  The guest must have been wondering what she had gotten herself into.   Our table was lively and the conversation was refreshing and insightful.  It seems I'm not the only one with the perception that TAC members are snobby.  Apparently a lot of expats share the same view as I do and feel the same sense of newly found reserve and appreciation for the Japanese culture.  We shared our experiences about the earthquake and how the Japanese's humility and discipline, especially in the face of tragedy, had made us all take a look at ourselves and our own culture.  It was cathartic, eased along by the wine, of course.

The food was surprisingly good and so was the wine.  Between each course Bruce Cakebread would amuse the crowd with wine anecdotes and tell us what we were drinking.  We all noted how generous the pouring had been at the beginning of the evening, but how now, toward the end, it seemed to have slowed to a trickle.  Or was it that we were all just really thirsty by then?  Conversation, and six glasses of wine, can do that.  This was about the time our host himself made it around to our table.   Big mistake.

He was welcomed by an overwhelming demand for more wine, of course implored with the deepest appreciation for what we had drunk so far.  This just after the premiere red of the evening, the Dancing Bear Ranch Cabernet, had been served in one minute pour per guest.  So of course we were all clamoring for more.  

But my favorite part was when Russell enthusiastically lauded Bruce for the amazing Dancing Bear Chardonnay he said he had tried at the Cakebread winery in Napa.  Bruce looked at him strangely for a minute then slowly nodded in understanding, concluding - drunk American - gottcha, and then said, "I'd love to try it too but we don't have a Dancing Bear white." Russell undeterred, expostulated how great it had been, sure he had tried a special, white Cakebread wine with a bear on the label.  Bruce smiled magnanimously and said, "well you'll be the first to know when we do."  

Soon after that it was obvious they wanted us to vacate the premises, pretty much all of the other tables had already left.  Was it something we said?  We took our new friends and the witty conversation downstairs to the bar.   Two bottles later the house lights came on in the bar too.  Is this a hint?  I was beginning to suspect they wanted to close or something?  

The rest of the night is a blur.  Somehow we made it home.  Thank goodness we don't have a car.  One of the benefits of Tokyo - you don't need a car, it's safe, and the train or a taxi will take you anywhere you need to go, even shit faced.

The next morning we woke up with epic hangovers.  It had been a while since we'd had one.  A hangover is like a really old irascible friend who has no qualms telling you, you look like shit, and reminding you of all the inappropriate things you said the night before.  Hello, old friend.   Can you come back later?

 The rowdy table

Yes, my husband would like another glass 

of the Dancing Bear Chardonnay