Festive Tokyo

The foot traffic in and out of Harajuku station was astounding. At several points between the platform and the exit -- a distance of about 200 meters altogether -- I was trapped for minutes at a time in the kind of human gridlock that invariably elicits a sarcastic, clichéd “moo” from someone in the crowd. Outside of the station was more pandemonium. Flocks of teenagers dressed in their lacy, black gothic gear collided with pockets of foreigners in loosely fitting Thai fisherman’s pants, with reggae T-shirts and short-brimmed hats.

It was Sunday, the final day of the Thai Festival.

I’d gone once before, long ago, and it had been of course crowded. But attendance then had not yet reached this level of craziness. I heard someone say that this year was the biggest turnout ever, and I believed it.

My good friend David was in town, and we’d planned to meet up with six others -- a task easier said than done. Somehow, despite the fact that the sheer number of people with cell phones in Yoyogi Park meant that none of us could get a signal, we all managed to find each other.

“I want those fried spring rolls,” I said, pointing to the first sign I saw featuring fried food.

“Oh, already sold out, dayo,” Yoshiko’s face wilted into an expression of comic disappointment, the kind of thing you do to indicate to a child that you’re “sad.”

“Damn,” I cursed. “Is this line actually moving?” The boys had gone off to find beers, and I imagined them blithely sipping Singhas beneath a tree somewhere, while we waited for plates filled with rapidly shrinking possibilities -- chicken, chicken, or chicken.

Eventually, we managed to get our hands on some comestibles: bowls of gooey meat-filled mochi-like dumplings doused with soy sauce and vinegar; crispy chicken wings in a sticky, sweet sauce; grilled chicken with Thai spices; thin rice vermicelli noodles in a piquant red broth; eggplant and mushrooms in a puddle of green coconut curry. If only there had been someplace to sit.

“Well, I haven’t finished reading it yet, but dozo,” Tetsuo handed us each a sheet from his Nikkei newspaper, and down we plopped, right in the middle of a walkway, with our food, sipping Singhas beneath a tree as people walked past us. I felt like a child looking up at adults.


“This festival used to be totally gay,” Tetsuo observed.

David let out a short, staccato guffaw and asked, “How can you tell if a Japanese guy is gay?”

“That’s easy,” he replied. “Short hair, stocky, horizontal striped shirt…You know gacchiri-mucchiri? It means like ‘stocky.’ We say, ‘gacchi-mucchi.’”

I giggled with delight. I love Testuo because he always teaches me the most hilarious Japanese phrases.

“Sometimes, people also say ‘gacchi-pocchi,’ means kind of chubby. But when people say that about themselves,” he turned to me and raised a conspiratorial eyebrow, “they’re fat.”

For the rest of the afternoon, we ate, drank, and made merry. By the end of it, we all agreed that it had been a great time, albeit one that need not be repeated any time soon.

“That was fun,” said Kazu, “but maybe next time we should just go to a Thai restaurant, ne.”

But don’t let my words discourage you. A big food festival in Tokyo is something that everyone should experience at least once. If the rain stops this weekend, I’ll be tempted to check out the Hibiya Oktoberfest in Hibiya Park. Never mind that it’s May. Time means nothing in the face of whimsy, and after a few heady German beers, you’re likely to forget all about it.

You can also head back to Yoyogi Park for the Laos Festival, if you dare.

Fret not, sake fans, the city hasn’t forgotten you. There’s a tasting at the Foreign Correspondent’s Club in Yurakucho on May 23rd, from 4 - 6pm.

Whatever you do, make sure you eat and drink something nice. I know I will.