My Almost Flawless Tokyo Dream Life

by Rachel Cohn

  Emiko led me first through the Ikebana Café on the fiftieth floor, the twenty-four-hour restaurant offering panoramic views over Tokyo and a giant ikebana flower display in the center of the room. The buffet had the most sumptuous food displays I’d ever seen. Hot trays filled with delicate beef and fish dishes, sautéed vegetables, dumplings, potatoes, and pastas. A noodle station with a dedicated chef who made ramen and udon soups customized to a diner’s request, heaped with meats, tofu, and vegetables. There was a full salad bar offering raw greens and vegetables, and a fruit station that had a wide range of cheese and crackers alongside that. There was even a dessert station that had a chocolate fountain spilling luscious sugar glory down three levels, with a huge assortment of house-made cookies and pastries to dip in it.

  The restaurant was filled with people of all ages and nationalities—it seemed like a dozen different languages were being spoken in the expansive room. The people were mostly dressed like Emiko, in sophisticated business clothes. I felt out of place in my school uniform and my inability to distinguish who was speaking French or Japanese or Korean or Arabic or Elvish for all I knew.

  “What’s that Eiffel Tower–looking thing?” We’d reached the far end of the Ikebana Café at the windows. I pointed at the glass toward a triangle-shaped red-and-white tower in the near distance. The city was spread out before us, and I figured I might as well use this Harvard Business School assistant to give me a primer on the view. Does anyone ever leave this place? I started to wonder, glancing at the forever-sealed windows.

  Emiko said, “That’s Tokyo Tower. It’s an observatory and a TV tower and a tourist attraction.”

  “That mountain in the distance looks familiar.”

  “That’s Mount Fuji, one of the most iconic places in Japan. You see it in Japanese art all the time. It’s one of Japan’s proudest symbols. Good view today. If the weather is cloudy or overcast, you can’t see it at all.”

  “What are all those bright lights over there?” I saw a green park in the distance, then behind it, neon signs everywhere, and tall buildings with holographic advertisements displayed on the sides, like constantly running, very colorful movies with no sound.

  “That’s Shibuya and behind it, Shinjuku. Have you ever seen Times Square in New York City?”

  “On TV, yeah.”

  “Those areas are like that. Lots of bright lights; very, very busy; and many people packing the streets.”

  She turned around from the window view and walked toward the center of the room with the giant ikebana.

  “How long’s Tak-Luxxe been around?” I asked, following her. “Everything looks so shiny and new.”

  “It is. This location has only been open for about a year. They also have locations in Kuala Lumpur, ­Singapore, and Shanghai, but this one is the family’s prize.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She looked at her Apple Watch, like she was bored with my lack of knowledge. She said, “Takahara-san’s father started this business in Tokyo. The city is special to the family. But the previous Tak-Luxxe in Tokyo was in an old building with not nearly as much space or grand views. Now Tak-Luxxe Tokyo’s hotel rooms are almost always booked, especially as this location offers guests access to Destiny Club.”

  “You say that name like it’s some kind of sacred mecca.”

  “It is, by Tokyo’s vertical city standards. Here, we only have room to build up and not out. There isn’t the space here for big country clubs like you have in the US. So ­Tak-Luxxe offers Destiny Club in Tokyo. You’re in it now!” I followed her to the elevator bank. Employees zipped by us wearing chef, waiter, desk attendant, and other ­Tak-Luxxe uniforms.

  “I don’t get it.” I saw no sign announcing, “Destiny Club.”

  She pressed the UP button. Emiko said, “Floors fifty through fifty-five are Destiny Club. It’s available to ­Tak-Luxxe hotel guests and residents, and to members who pay an annual fee to come here.”

  “Hold up. People pay a fee just to eat in a restaurant?”

  “This restaurant is just one part. Destiny Club is a complete experience.” I gave her what Mom calls my oh, come on look. Emiko said, “Yes, I know I sound like the Tak-Luxxe brochure, but it’s true. It is a recreational and social club that has world-renowned restaurants, private clubs, business lounges, meeting rooms, gaming rooms, a spa, and a state-of-the-art gym.”

  “How much is a membership?”

  “They pay a fee. Destiny Club membership costs about ten million yen per year.”

  The elevator door opened and I almost choked. “WHAT?”

  “It’s not as much as it sounds like. Ten million yen only equals about a hundred thousand dollars.”

  Equally choke-worthy. “That’s still a crazy amount of money.”

  We stepped inside the elevator. Emiko said, “It’s not a crazy amount of money to this type of clientele.”

  Mom used to think she’d hit pay dirt if she had an extra fifty dollars before her paycheck ran out. It seemed criminal that people could spend a hundred thousand dollars on luxuries when there was so much poverty in the world. What made them so lucky to have that much while others suffered really hard? What made me so lucky to now be part of that world?

  As impressed as I was by Destiny Club, it was intimidating. The place didn’t seem like real life. It looked and felt like a haven where unfairly wealthy people went to be separate from everyone else. Everything was so ordered and impeccable. Beautiful, but soulless.

  Emiko looked at a text message on her phone. ­“Takahara-san will be available to dine with you at seven this evening,” she said.

  We got out of the elevator on floor fifty-five, where there was a sign on the wall that said SKY GARDEN.

  “Is that how it will always be?” I asked her. “I find out from you when my father is available to see me?”

  She didn’t hear my frustration. She answered, “Probably.”

  “What if I want to see him right now?”

  She looked at a calendar on her phone. “Not possible. He’ll be at the private men’s club.”

  I followed her into a garden in the sky . . . literally. It was like a miniature city park in a glass atrium, filled with lush plants and private seating areas. But I couldn’t focus on the beauty of the room. I said, “Private men’s club? Where’s that?”

  “It’s entered through a hidden door just past the racquetball courts.”

  “Can I go see it?”

  “No. I’ve never even been inside there, and I’ve worked here for two years.”

  “Who goes there?”

  “Businessmen.”

  “What do they do there that needs to be private?”

  “Smoke cigars and do business.”

  “Is there a club like that here for women, too?”

  “The women’s locker room at the spa is private.”

  “No, I mean, like a private women’s club for smoking cigars and doing business stuff.”

  “Japanese women don’t need that.” And this woman went to Harvard?

  “I wouldn’t mind it.” We walked through the garden, which led to another door, where there was a pool built under an atrium roof. The pool was lovely but small, and had an adjacent hot tub. No guests were using it at this particular time. Such a shame. The views out the glass walls were more impressive than the pool itself, but I was thrilled that I’d have the option for a quick dip here when I wasn’t enjoying the ginormous competition-size pool at ICS-Tokyo.

  Emiko wasn’t interested in debating whether the private men’s club was anti-feminist if a similar club was not also available for females. Despite her painfully polite facade, I felt confident she would be relieved to ditch me and my questions. She handed me a long brown envelope from her briefcase. “The remaining items you’ll need are in here. Your swipe card for access to your home and the Tak-Luxxe facilities, a PASMO card for taking taxis and the subway, and an American Express card to pay for any expenses like clothes and food.”

  “My ow
n credit card? I can’t pay for that!” I rarely had more than a couple bucks in my pocket. I had no idea what to do with a credit card.

  “It’s Takahara-san’s account. Your . . . father pays.” She hesitated to use the word father, like it couldn’t possibly be true.

  I actually understood her hesitation. I came to Japan to meet my father and all I got was his assistant and a lousy credit card. It didn’t seem real to me either that Kenji Takahara was my father. Since I wouldn’t seem to be getting much attention from the man himself, I asked Emiko, “What’s he like?”

  “Who?”

  Even I had a hard time saying father. “Takahara-san.”

  “Very hardworking. A good boss.”

  “I mean, like, as a person.”

  Emiko looked stumped. Finally, she said, “He likes jokes. He can be funny. He likes it when his guests are having a good time here.” I never would have guessed that about him. He seemed nice enough, but all business.

  “Does he have a girlfriend?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Does he have any family here?”

  “Yes. I’m sure you’ll meet them soon. His mother and sister live one floor below you, on forty-eight.”

  Wait. I had a grandmother and an aunt here, too? Nobody thought to tell me that? And why hadn’t they bothered to come meet me?

  Despite the royal treatment and my new gold Amex card, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was less than a family member here at Disney in the Sky.

  I found my way to a sushi bar called Ryoga on the fifty-second floor of Destiny Club at exactly 7 p.m. It was a small restaurant—just a long countertop, with eight high stools, all occupied, and a chef working behind the ­counter. The men wore suits and the ladies wore dresses. I looked like a vagrant in my jeans and T-shirt.

  I spied Kenji Takahara at a private booth in a corner of the restaurant, where a cream-colored curtain that wasn’t closed all the way separated the area from the main counter­top table at the center of the restaurant. I hesitantly ventured inside. “Hi?” I said. “You were expecting me?”

  He put his phone down on the table and stood up and bowed. “I’ve been looking forward to our visit.”

  Our visit? I lived with him now. Or did he not remember that?

  I didn’t want to stare, but I also wanted to never stop looking at his face. It was so familiar and completely foreign to me at the same time. I still couldn’t believe he existed and had invited me into his world. Maybe not his life, but his world.

  We two sat down across from each other at the table big enough for eight people. I asked, “How come we’re eating back here and not in the main area?”

  “I realize the restaurant might look plain, but it’s very exclusive. Seats reserved months in advance. The chef is Michelin-starred.”

  “Who’s Michelin Starred? A famous Top Chef?”

  He laughed warmly. “No. The chef’s a third-­generation sushi master, rated by Michelin, a very important travel and food guide.”

  “Then good for you for snagging him!”

  He laughed again. “Thank you!” he said, and I almost wanted to die with happiness at the bemused smile on his face. I made that happen. He gestured to our table. “This table is for special clients. Or me and my special guests.” He paused. “And you are not dressed properly for dinner in the main section.”

  I hadn’t been told to wear anything in particular, so I’d worn what was comfortable. At least I’d known enough not to show up to dinner wearing my ICS-Tokyo uniform. “Excuse me,” I said sarcastically.

  “Did you sneeze?”

  “No.”

  A waiter came in, bowed, and spoke to my father in Japanese. Goblets of water were brought to our table. “Where’s the menu?” I asked.

  “No menus here. What kind of sushi do you like?” I’d seen sushi in the prepared foods aisle at Safeway, but it always seemed way too expensive to buy, relative to how small the portions were.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never had it.”

  “That’s good. Ryoga Restaurant is omakase.”

  “That’s the best kind of sushi?”

  “It means, ‘I leave it to you.’ The chef makes the choice for you. It’s the best quality and intervention that way.”

  “Do you mean ‘invention’?”

  “Yes. So how was your day?”

  Finally, a legitimate dad question.

  “Good. They had this girl, Imogen Kato, show me around. Her mom is a famous designer.”

  “Shar Kato!” He beamed. “Her daughter will be an excellent girl for you to have as a friend. We’re trying to get Shar Kato to design new employee uniforms for ­Tak-Luxxe. See what you can do to help our case.” I wasn’t sure if he was kidding.

  “How was your day?” I asked him.

  “Since my father died last year and I took over running the company, my life is work, all the time work. I hope I don’t . . .” He hesitated, like he was trying to find a word. “In Japan it’s called karōshi.”

  “What’s it mean?”

  “Death from overwork. Usually a heart attack.”

  “Yes, please don’t karōshi.” Mom worked a lot, too, before the Beast, but she always found time for me. “So . . . when am I going to see you?”

  “You’re seeing me now! We will have dinner together every night. Get to know each other that way.” Well, that was something. He seemed married to his work, but at least he had a plan for us to spend time together. We were never going to be a “normal” family—whatever that was—so I figured I could try to appreciate the situation for what it was. He’d taken me in and was sending me to a really nice school and I could help him out by not being so desperate for him to immediately be like a real father. Whatever that meant. I’d never had one—how should I know? Kenji said, “Tell me about yourself. What do you like?”

  “Eating, for one,” I said as our first plate of sushi was set in between us.

  He handed me a set of chopsticks. “Do you know how to use?”

  “I’m learning.” I cautiously took one of the sushi pieces as he took the other with his chopsticks.

  “Eat each piece in one bite,” he advised.

  “Don’t worry, I read that part of the binder. I also now know to eat sushi in the order it was put out, always finish it, use soy sauce sparingly, dip the sushi upside down into the sauce, and don’t linger after the meal.”

  “Excellent!” he proclaimed, not getting that I was trying to mock the rules.

  I placed the first piece of sushi in my mouth. HIGH HOLY HEAVEN! It was like a dance of flavors and textures—­salty, rich, sweet, chewy yet silken—all at once. “This is maybe the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” I said after swallowing. To be fair, food that good did deserve rules for eating. Each flavor ping caused epic delirium to my taste buds. Ramen was okay. Sushi was the bomb.

  “Eating is my favorite activity, too,” he said. “What else do you like?”

  “Cats. Swimming. Beyoncé. What about you?”

  “Dogs. Baseball. Beyoncé.”

  A dog person who loved Beyoncé wasn’t hopeless, but I had a more pressing concern. “What am I supposed to call you?” I blurted out. Was there a Japanese word for Father-I-Only-Just-Met-and-Don’t-Yet-Feel-Comfortable-Calling-Dad?

  “What do you want to call me?”

  “Kenji, I guess?”

  He smiled. Seriously, with that charismatic smile and handsome face, he missed his calling as a J-Pop music star. “Then call me ‘KenjiIGuess.’ ”

  I giggled. Good sense of humor: check. A new plate of food was brought to our table, looking even more delicious than the previous plate. I said, “I also like ­Coca-Cola, KenjiIGuess.”

  To the waiter, he said, “Coca-Cola,” and held up two fingers. Then he said something else to the waiter in ­Japanese. When the waiter was gone, he said, “I told him not to tell Chef Shiro we were having Coca-Cola with his masterpieces.”

  “Is that a sushi rule? No Cokes with the meal
?”

  “No, that’s a basic rule of fine food dining. But I’m the boss. I get to break the rules.”

  Interesting. I liked this rebellious side of Kenji.

  I asked him, “What kind of student were you when you were my age? Where did you go to school?”

  “I went to boarding school in America, actually. Andover. My sister went there also. Our parents wanted us to perfect our English. My sister was a star student, but I was just all right. Not the worst. Not the best. I preferred sports and partying with my friends. What about you?”

  “I used to be a good student. Until things got bad with Mom, I got almost straight A’s.” I paused. I appreciated how open he was being with me, and I wanted to reciprocate that. “Thank you for the opportunity to go to school here. I really like ICS-Tokyo.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, looking pleased. He took a deep breath and then announced, “But even more important than getting good grades is getting along with my mother.”

  “Is she hard to get along with?” Was that why I hadn’t heard anything about her yet? He was hiding her from me . . . or vice versa?

  “She’s . . . not always easy,” Kenji said tactfully. “She’s the true boss of the family. When I found out what was happening with your mother, I said let’s bring Elle here and see how she does. My mother wanted to pay to send you to boarding school instead.”

  I need a drink, my mom would have said at this point in the conversation. She would have meant something a lot stronger than Coca-Cola.

  “So how come I’m here, then?” I asked, not sure whether I still felt the same level of gratitude. Instead, I felt nervous and anxious, like I was about to be sent to a new foster home again.

  “Because I finally got Mother to agree that we could have you here temporarily, to see how it goes.”

  My heart dropped into my stomach. Temporarily? I didn’t know my coming to Tokyo was possibly a temporary measure. Wasn’t that something I should have been told before I chose to get on the plane?

  “Don’t look so concerned! I’m sure you and she will get along fine.”