Finally, I had found the door. The five-foot slab of wood could have been the entrance to a hobbit hole, was it round. But no hobbit-hole, not even the deepest-dug, best-concealed, dragon-treasure-trove of Mr Bilbo Baggins, could have housed the cornucopia to be found behind that portal…
There was a thud as my forehead hit the lintel, then a clunk as my jaw hit the floor… Thelonious Monk lilted across the room on a veil of sweet cigar smoke… I blinked a few times as the circling stars faded and some 3000-odd bottles of old, rare, and antecedently unheard of whiskies fell into sharp relief.
There was no need to pinch myself; the pain in my head confirmed that I was still alive, although the vista suggested otherwise…
I had, indeed, found Whisky Nirvana; Ryoichi Uneda’s Bar Country, Osaka.
The man who comes back through the Door in the Wall will never be quite the same as the man who went out. He will be wiser but less sure, happier but less self-satisfied, humbler in acknowledging his ignorance yet better equipped to understand the relationship of words to things, of systematic reasoning to the unfathomable mystery which it tries, forever vainly, to comprehend.
Aldous Huxley
“I am Ryoichi Uneda” a voice boomed authoritatively from the far corner of the bar. “K,k,konbanwa” (good evening) I stammered from the vestibule, nursing my injured forehead while attempting a bow. With a casual gesticulation worthy of HRH, Uneda-san waved me to a seat at the bar…
“Konbanwa” I repeated, regaining my composure whilst settling into a well-worn leather stool at the equally timeworn bar. “Hajimemashite, William to moushimasu” I volunteered, hoping, and failing, to appear less tourist-like. “Pleased to meet you too… may I offer you a drink?” Uneda-san responded.“Osusume wa nan desuka?” (your recommendation?) I replied (feeling overwhelmed by the selection and attempting to display deference to my host’s vastly superior knowledge). “Nikka Taketsuru”, he obliged, and with a wave of his left hand and a sweep of his right, both dram and bottle appeared before me.
Before I could ask “chotto misu kudasai?” Uneda-san, with the casual precision of a gunslinger holstering his Colt, deposited a small jug of water beside the Glencairn. He bowed slightly, smiled, and stepped back, leaving me to appreciate the malt; I definitely make better decisions when I get wiser people, like Uneda-san, to make them for me.
I gazed in wonder at the magnificent collection of spirits while Uneda-san explained how Bar Country’s lavish inventory has grown (since its founding 1952) to fill every possible nook of the little bar. Chairs, tables, shelves, all literally overflowing with malty abundance. Alongside has grown Uneda-san’s encyclopaedic knowledge and yet, his is a humble, courtly, presence, in the manner of a favourite uncle.
I savoured the Nikka Taketsuru, followed by a Date (pronounced daa-tay), while considering whether I could afford either the 46-year-old Ben Nevis or the 1989 Mortlach I had spied on the shelf ahind me…
Of course, I could afford neither the Ben Nevis, nor the Mortlach. So I reached for both…
I passed the old Speysider over the bar as though it was a kitten, just lulled to sleep. Uneda-san received it graciously, bowing and complimenting me on the selection…
Like a magician producing a coney from a fedora, Uneda-san waved his hand along the bar, depositing both bottle and generous dram of Dufftown’s finest afore me.
The viscous scent of old, rich, Christmas cake, dripping with hot caramel sauce, wafted up from the glass in portent of my reward…
And it cost how much? Well, I really can’t remember but I do clearly recall the magnificence of that whisky. Its sublimity was briefly disturbed when a large moustache shuffled through the front door, supported by a small German. The pair took a seat at the other end of the bar while Uneda-san excused himself to serve them. The moustache nodded slightly as its whisky-drenched ends tilted upward in a smile. I returned the nod and raised my glass in a welcoming toast; Kanpai!
My hirsute drinking partner and I were shortly joined by a rather charming couple from Singapore, who, mercifully, positioned themselves between us. Thus followed another round of introductions and a few more toasts. I had, apparently, barely eluded my new Singaporean friends at the Yamazaki distillery that afternoon, which, obviously, made us practically family…
As the slender door swung opened and closed, a multifarious assembly filled the small bar. A group of Okinawan bikers sat to my left, giving Uneda-san and me an excuse to pull out photos of our bikes. A young American couple entered and tentatively occupied the last two seats; they weren’t into whisky so decided to move on.
I gave them a polite nod and a goodnight in English as they left and wondered if I should do more; should I offer to buy them a whisky? Something adorable that nobody could possibly dislike? God knows, I was in the right place to find such an elixir. There was a Glendronach 15 right at my elbow… Perfect! But as I looked up, the door closed, and they disappeared into the neon forest outside.
Their departure evoked the memory of an evening many years before, when I perched myself on a Tokyo barstool next to a middle-aged “salaryman”. A serpentine spiral of cigarette smoke rose from between the fingers of his left hand. He clutched a rocks glass in his right. His visage and posture suggested that he was anticipating the collapse of the ceiling.
I considered introducing myself but I didn’t want to bother him (and my Japanese was too poor to start a conversation anyway) but I wonder still if starting that conversation could have lightened the load that he obviously bore.
Was he OK? I’ll never know now. Perhaps he just wanted to be left alone or, maybe, a chat with one from well outside his sphere over a whisky or three may have changed the course his life, and mine.
Robert Burns quite rightly said “Freedom an' whisky gang thegither!”. But perhaps it is at least as true that whisky and friendship do. Therein lies the great beauty of such special meeting places as Uneda-san’s Bar Country, the birthplace of so many friendships, that endure across oceans.
A clink of glasses shook me from the reminiscence, as Melvin (my Singaporean friend) offered me a particularly delightful Caol Ila.
We had been trading recommendations for some time at that point; sharing whiskies, our delight in the discovery of Bar Country, and a general infatuation with Osaka.
The space vacated by the Americans did not last long. A local businessman, rotund in both stature and demeanor, squeezed through the door, with a young girl on each arm, a jubilant greeting, and (oddly enough) sandwiches for all.
In a ritual that had been repeated many times that evening, a flurry of meishi (business cards) was exchanged, and with that, Bar Country was, as usual, full.
Midnight approached; I had 8 minutes to make the 9-minute walk to board the last train to Tsurahashi (my favoured lurking place in Osaka). I said my goodbyes, settled the constellation sized bill, and 6 minutes later, slipped sideways through the sliding doors of the last train…
I have since reprised that evening in 2016 many times, always bringing with me a gratefully-received bottle of Australian Whisky (to bolster Uneda-san’s collection), and various fluffy Australian marsupial mascots (to bolster his clutter). Ryoichi glides up and down the bar, with the gifted bottle in one hand, and a dram of it in the other, offering his usual sagacious analysis, much to the delight of his enthusiastic audience.
There are plenty of great bars in Osaka. And, although few can match the eye-watering inventory of Bar Country, a good place to settle in for the evening is never far away. The reason I return to Bar Country in particular, and the reason you should go there too, is simply that it’s the only place you will find Uneda-san.
>> to December 2019: I’m seated at the opposite end of the bar, it's 7 minutes to midnight, and that 12:00 Tsuarahshi train is never late. I carefully pocket my newly acquired meishi, say adieu to my new whisky comrades, mata ne to Uneda-san, and, with 5 minutes left to make the train, bow and hurry out the door. My farewell was a brief one; but I’d be back in a few months, at most.
I missed the last train. And then the rain started. Still, the walk back “home” to Tsurahashi was not an unpleasant one. Even in the middle of winter, Osaka is not cold, and walking its streets is always an adventure.
A few nights later, as 2020 slithered into its unfortunate existence, I stood at the local Shinto shrine, contemplating the evanescence of the adventure that was coming to a close, and giving thanks for the ones that were yet to be. One thing I’m sure of, is that my next Osaka adventure will start at that little hobbit-door of Bar Country. And the tears won’t be because I banged my head on the lintel again; they will be from the purest joy; tadaima.
William Crampton
こんにちは、Uneda-san
大阪のバーカントリーへのこの小さな賛辞をお楽しみください。以前のおもてなしに感謝しつつ、2022年にまたウィスキーを共にできることを楽しみにしています。
Will
