Cafe Wamp

Yesterday we were taking a leisurely stroll around the neighborhood with Pippi when we chanced upon the Cafe Wamp tucked inside a bunker-like space beneath the overhead expressway.  Capitalizing on any usable space (defined broadly), the gaps under elevated transit lines of all sorts often house a variety of commercial endeavors like shoe repair shops, dry cleaners and sketchy bars only open after sundown. Because of its menu posted outside and friendly-seeming folk seated at street-side tables, I took a closer look.  Much to my surprise, the small shop not only carried dog paraphernalia alongside tea and cakes, it had actual dogs. And lots of them. Curious, I approached the proprietor, an amiable chap who spoke rather good English since he used to play football in Florida.  A dog lover, he rescues dogs and keeps them at his shop until he can find homes for them.  At the moment he is maxed out with motley collection of mostly pit bulls and a few mixed breeds, all big dogs.  The animals looked a little bored but well tended.  Clearly they get a lot of attention from the Wamp staff and customers.

Wondering about the name "Wamp," I probed the proprietor.  Combining English and Japanese, this made-up word is based on a slang Japanese expression, "ippuku," meaning "one puff." Though a reference to taking a puff on a cigarette (ichi + puku), the term has come to mean "taking a short break." And translating "ichi" into "one" led the cafe owner to the sound written "wa" which is also a play on the Japanese word meaning "harmony."

Anyhow, if you know of anyone looking to adopt a dog, please drop by Wamp.  The cafe is on Meiji Dori, between Tengenjibashi and Furukawabashi.  If it weren't for the cafe, these dogs probably would not have a chance since there is no such thing as a no-kill shelter in Japan.  Their plight seems particularly heartbreaking in a country where people lavish unbelievable expense and attention on their pets yet look the other way while hundreds of dogs are "euthanized" weekly.

Changes in the Hood

We now know that our old and much beloved building, Moto Azabu Grand Mansion, will be torn down soon. We knew this was coming but preferred to not think about it.


Until we moved out in July, this was the only home Eve had ever lived in and the only one that Abby remembered.


For us, that lovely apartment 401 was laden with memories and history.


We were its first and only tenants. But now it is empty and awaiting its demise.


Borings have been taken, the legally required kenchiku keikaku (architectural plan) is posted to the side of the building (pictured above) and the drive in front is now fenced off. Even Pippi is deterred.




Instead of parked cars, piles of scaffolding sit in its paved roadway, just waiting to be called up for duty. If all goes according to plan, the brick-clad structure will be in the throes of demolition by this time next week.


Just around the corner, the 70s vintage (I think) apartment building, Homat Pearl, is a few steps ahead in the redevelopment process. Sorry for the poor picture. The old building already razed and the site prepared, the groundbreaking is about to happen (I think). It is a huge site -- I never realized its size until the building was removed. Now that it is gone, there is so much more light and air. But, of course, that will go once the new construction starts. Hopefully these two new buildings will not alter the character of that little S-shaped stretch of street, an unexpected pocket of residential quiet in the shadow of mammoth Roppongi Hills.

Now don't get me wrong. I am quite dazzled by Tokyo's ability to reinvent itself again and again and again. This city has a remarkable way of evolving, revitalizing and growing in a very organic fashion. These are marvelous traits that keep the city alive -- no donut issues here. In fact, I would even go so far as to say Tokyo is a model of natural urban renewal that the rest of the world could learn from.

The replacement of buildings one by one is a sign of urban health. I do not even mind the disjuncture between adjacent buildings -- there are no cornice lines, street walls or consistent architectural vocabularies to unify. Over the years I have grown quite fond of the odd juxtapositions and strange adjacencies. Though frustrating at times, I have even developed an affection for the quirky Japanese address system that identifies buildings in the order of their completion, not physical location within the block. Yet seeing our former home for one of the last times tugs at my heart just a little.

I want the city to replace the worn out and the no longer needed, yet to save the meaningful and the historic -- and not just the front elevation as is sometimes the case ( I loathe facadism). Not to mention the florid wastefulness of destroying a building like the Grand Mansion which is only 16 years old. This is young even by Japanese standards. Good Bye, Grand Mansion. We are sorry to see you go.

Coffee Cup Chandelier

This amazing light fixture elevates the lowly coffee cup to chandelier status. If you look closely, you will see that each of its tiered rings is composed entirely of white, Western style cups grouped together by style. Neatly nested together, they take on a completely different persona that is far and above their original lot in life. They probably started out as mundane, mass produced tableware earmarked for hotels and the like. There is something delightful about seeing them out of context, especially since they probably had little visual interest in their previous incarnation. While maintaining a connection to their original function, these iconic forms become geometric objects when aligned on their side. I am fascinated by that change in perception when we view objects in a group and in unexpected circumstances. Did the creator of these cups ever envision that they'd end up on the ceiling ???

Somehow these various cup collections had the good fortune to wind up at Pass the Baton, an unusual consignment store in the bowels of Omotesando Hills. Introduced to me by a design producer I met a few months ago, the shop's mission is to highlight the value of used goods and promote their re-homing with artful, attractive displays and clever juxtapositions. Historically, there has been little market for used anything in Japan, aside from American blue jeans and logo tee shirts. A bi-product of waste recycling has been an increased awareness that someone else's discards could be treasures. Especially among younger consumers.

In some ways Pass the Baton reminds me of the thrift, vintage and antique shops on Chicago's north side that my mother and I liked to frequent together. Yet the atmosphere here is a far cry from those musty places. On the contrary, the shop is well lit, clean as a whistle and the goods are cleverly grouped by theme on big tables in the middle of the shop or built-in shelving along the walls. Unlike at the Tokyo flea markets, there are no cardboard boxes to rifle through or piles of clutter to navigate around. Instead, each piece is labelled with a little information about the seller and marked with a price tag (no bargaining here). Resembling a line of tellers at the bank, a large desk along one side serves as the "passcounter" where sellers bring their no longer needed possessions (the shop posts a list of restrictions on their web site: www.pass-the-baton.com). The owner is asked to tell the story of each item so potential buyers can learn its background -- essential information that documents the previous life of and reaffirms the non-monetary value of each piece. Pass the Baton is the kind of place where I could linger for a long time but happily walk out empty handed.

Precious Asparagus

Check out this recent vegetable market find. These are the most beautiful asparagus I have ever seen. Bar none. But at those prices who buys them? For a single stalk, the green is Y150, the white is Y280 and the purple will set you back a whopping Y300! At the current exchange rate that's approaching $4.00 for a solo spear! Even in Tokyo those numbers are verging on the outrageous. Though tempted to taste test the different colors, we preserved their lovely appearance on film instead.

Pizza Van

Pizza Van takes the meaning of food-to-go to a new place. In recent years I have noticed an increase in restaurants-on-wheels parked on Tokyo streets. Usually they hawk conventional fare like espresso or kebabs. Trumping them all, this fellow has a bona fide, tile clad, wood burning pizza oven fired up in the back of his souped-up VW van. Can this possibly be safe? His pies were selling like the proverbial hot cakes to the lingering crowds taking in the cherry blossoms one last time before the petals all blow off and sail down the Meguro River.

Designer Chairs

These are our new dining chairs. Aren't they great? After 22 years and two Pacific crossings, our old chairs needed replacing. In addition to the usual dings and dents, their cane seating was worn out, causing me to pause every time dinner guests come over. The few intact chairs have been relegated to the kitchen.



Made of oak, the new chairs have a timeless elegance that works well with our glass-topped table (a nice Corb knock off). Designed by Naoto Fukasawa, they are the product of the wood furniture maker Maruni but are marketed through Muji. Though they look small, the seats are remarkably comfortable. According to Wallpaper* magazine, they have a "refined but fresh-from-the-workshop feel that belies [their] manufactured origins." Took the words right out of my mouth.







By contrast, these chairs were made for a workshop but have a distinctly machine -tooled aesthetic. They are actually not as uncomfortable as they look. Composed of wafer-thin sheets of steel, these chairs were designed by Junya Ishigami to accompany his building at the Kanagawa Institute of Technology in Hon-Atsugi. I re-visited the site last week with friends from the U.S. The focal point of the school's modest campus, Ishigami's low scale, transparent box achieves monumentally without being a monument. In fact, it is barely even a building. The parallelogram-shaped, glass enclosure contains a workshop where, befitting an engineering school, students can make anything they want: ceramics, computer graphics, wood products, metal works or even full size vehicles. The sky is literally the limit. Currently a hand glider made of wood and some kind of plastic graces the ceiling. The building's remarkable lightness of being still takes my breath away.

Rain-Colored Rain Boots

Transparent rain boots! They match everything! Including the rain! Devoid of their own color, they take on the pattern or hue of the socks inside. Just think of the wardrobing possibilities. Unfortunately this clever design is stuck in the prototype phase. And it is likely to stay there, according to the boots' creator, who I met recently during Tokyo Designers Week. Apparently, the idea of see-through boots did not go over well with Japanese consumers. I suppose they felt their feet were a little too exposed. I kind of see the point. Though we take off our shoes in front of strangers all the time, most Japanese people prefer to cover their feet with indoor slippers. Perhaps wearing clear footwear is akin to walking around in one's socks. And out in public to boot.

Rental Mini-Refrigerators

The Tokyu Food Show below Shibuya Station is one of my favorite markets for fresh produce and fish. A real throwback, it is a raucous venue loaded with open stalls where vendors hawk everything from sembei rice crackers to salmon and sweet potatoes. The turnover is great and I never come home empty-handed.

Surely I have walked by this bank of lockers many times. On the outside they look like the rental storage bins available all over Japan. But this conventional exterior conceals an unconventional interior: they are actually mini- refrigerators. For a mere Y300 (coins returned upon retrieval of the contents), today's purchases can chill while you finish your errands. How cool is that?