Tucked away on the western side of Tokyo, past luxury boutique stores and between quiet residences rests a small coffee shop by the name of Omotesando Koffee. It stands as an oasis in one of the ritziest shopping hubs in the city.
Passing under an ornately carved gateway, I found myself inside a miniature garden just before the entrance to the coffee shop. It couldn’t have been larger than seven feet by seven, but every inch of it was fastidiously manicured. A small trickling waterfall, bonsais, and ruby red Japanese maples dotted the inside of the intimate garden.
As I entered the shop, I was greeted by a pair of baristas garbed in all white coats, resembling something between chefs and scientists. They were inviting, but assumed solemn looks and worked in complete silence. They spoke no more than they needed to—even with each other—as to not be distracted from their craft at hand.
Per my usual, I ordered a cortado and sat on a bench outside in the garden. A canopy of red maple leaves did their best to filter the slowly misting rain overhead. As I settled into my coffee and awoke fully, I caught the sound of a fussing baby emanating from a nearby apartment’s window. This was soon followed by the soothing melody of a mother’s song calming it down. I realized I had found something extremely rare during my time in Tokyo—tranquility. I had encountered it in temples, but that’s to be expected though in a place of worship. It pleasantly surprised me in Omotesando.
From the baristas’ perfected movements, to their stern demeanor of concentration, Omotesando Koffee imbued sense of ritual into something that is so often overlooked as mundane or utilitarian. Coffee (good coffee) has always held a place of importance for me since my time living in Rome. There was something incredibly refreshing about uncovering that same feeling again on the opposite side of the globe.