It started as a night like any other. I’m a coffee writer; I’d been at it around a year at this point, and on that particular evening I went out drinking around Tokyo with some local coffee folks; roasters, baristas, cafe managers. That sort of crowd.
We went to a local bar in Shimokitazawa. Clinked beer mugs and ate yakitori. Talked. Everyone had a story that night. I told them I’d never made a good cup of coffee. Ever. Something was always off, I said—perhaps it was my destiny to write about coffee, not brew it. It just takes practice, they said, but I shrugged.
I didn’t think practice would help; I just couldn’t do it. Never had, never would, I thought.
Two beers turned to three, and three to four, and somehow we got to talking about yōkai, the monsters and spirits of Japanese folklore. I was fascinated by their scope; the mix of evil, playful, and good, and the sheer variety that existed—it seemed as though if you imagined them, they existed.
I’d come to think there was a yokai for every season and every occasion, so I asked if there was a coffee yokai, or a tea yokai. I wondered what form such a spirit might take.
I expected a fun story.
Instead, a silence fell over our group. Tension filled the air like a heavy blanket soaked with water. I listened to the sound of meat grilling in the kitchen, and 90’s pop music over tinny speakers. Everyone looked at their feet or their hands. Nobody made eye contact.
And then, after sharing polite excuses, we…
