Tokyo, Japan.
First, an apology: what follows may seem touristy and stinking of stale stereotypes. I know Japan is more modern and more stressed out than we are. The country is crawling with techno-geeks and littered with tall towers. But this is how I experienced one evening in Tokyo.
I had cabin fever and joined Srini towards the end of his business trip. On their last night, his company had planned a big event. A surprise event. All they told us was that we would be going to a ryotei, a traditional Japanese restaurant, to dine with geishas. That’s right, kimono wrapped, puffy-haired ladies sporting wooden flip-flops. Only they are too graceful to flip and flop.
I didn’t know what to expect. I knew they serve tea, walk around perfectly poised, balancing their bouffants, taking dainty steps in thong sandals and white socks. I thought I knew the geishas’ secret jobs, but couldn’t get any confirmation. But no one denied it either. Word was that they are entertainers. You know, like consorts or courtesans. I wondered how their delicate voices and demure manner would entertain the dozen of us loud Americans.
We enter the restaurant’s low hanging doorway, narrow, labyrinthian hallways, rooms beyond rooms – and finally a sparse room with a low table and cushions. We would be sitting on the floor. As we got closer, though, I notice they have allowed for knee issues: underneath the table hides a dugout where you can dangle your legs.
We take our seats. There is palpable excitement, even a touch of giddiness in the air. I expect to dine before being visited by geishas. Surely a treat this special won’t just be served without some ceremony. But minutes after we arrive, traditionally dressed women come bearing our first course. They span in age from giggly young to cranky old.
The geishas are here already. I expected more fanfare. The one who kneels across from us seems to be in her mid-forties, with an air of confidence. Her face is not painted white though, and her hair doesn’t hold the decor that I thought geishas were supposed to have. She knows about 50 to 60 English words, and she uses them fearlessly. She laughs easily. Even pronouncing our names, and hearing us try hers, makes her chuckle.
Geishas – eight or ten of them – kneel among the guests, helping them with their napkins, pouring tea, beer, and sake for them. Some seem younger, in their 20s and 30s. An older, unsmiling one, brings food from the kitchen. She is also dressed in a kimono, and is – or was – probably a geisha, but now seems fed up with the whole schtick.
There are a couple of garden variety geishas—whiteout face, candy-apple lipstick, powder pink eye shadow, spring blooming in their hair. One of them comes and sits beside us. Close up, she is shockingly young. We are told that when they are “small,” (as suspected, we later learn “virgin”) they are called “maiko.” They are the only ones who wear the face mask paint. I hope she only looks this young. Her face still has some of the plumpness of junior high girls I know, her teeth crooked. She is shy about pulling out her English, even though she probably knows some. She seems unsure of herself, more comfortable making eye contact with the other maiko than with the guests.
A few courses into the meal – some delectable, some extreme cuisine — we pause for entertainment. All of it happens without introduction. Two older geishas get on string instruments, a younger one on drums.
One by one and two by two, the geishas perform dances for us. They remind me a bit of the hula. Not the fast, hip-rattling one. No, the quieter, evocative hula, where they beckon the waves, mimic the moon. I wonder what all the movements mean.
It’s time for games. I never imagined that if you got a bunch American VCs and geishas together, they would spend the evening playing “rock, paper, scissors.” Or that they would all be so amused by it! The geishas invite us up one at a time, and to the beat of the drums and their chanting, we play the grade school game, with one caveat: every time you lose, you have to spread your feet apart a few inches. It’s mano-a-mano and the one who falls over first loses. Myriad factors play in: your flexibility, your clothing’s stretch, your feet’s grip (hint: go without socks). Old men prove to be surprisingly flexible, and graceful geishas surprisingly carefree as their kimonos ride up to their knees.
We all take turns falling over and making our geishas fall. The loser has to pick himself off the ground and knock back a small glass of Asahi beer. Even for yours truly, who normally hates beer, this is not much of a punishment. The stuff is not half bad… but maybe it is the ambiance.
Another game is a slight variation on the first, but with only one shot at winning or losing. Here, there is a tiger (“tora, tora, tora”), a samurai, and an old lady. The tiger can eat the old lady, the samurai can kill the tiger, and the old lady can somehow lord over the samurai – that bit remained unclear (maybe out of higher status of the elderly?). The games go on. Asahi never runs low.
Jet lag setting in, and those small glasses adding up, we try our hand at a game where two people sit with an upside down cup between them. First person taps the cup and then claps. Then the second person, then the first again. The game gets faster and faster. To throw your opponent off, you can pick up the cup, leaving the table empty. Your opponent has to react quickly by knocking on the table. Except for a couple of exceptionally agile guests, we lose quickly to our hosts. But we are stuffed and satisfied and happy to lose.
The evening ends as unceremoniously as it began. The geishas clear out with nary a hug, nor a goodbye. They have other guests to entertain, and we have run out of time.
