Place Shelf / Home Bar
When I was in high school and an avid reader of Haruki Murakami, I felt a compulsive need to “know” every song mentioned in his novels. I would rush to listen, eager to be able to say I “knew” them.
Of course, this was the 1980s, long before Apple Music. You couldn’t just press play—you had to put in the work. As soon as something caught my attention, I would spring into action, visiting multiple rental record shops until I found it. Books were no different. If one intrigued me, I would call bookstores to check stock and then race over to pick up a copy.
Later on, I began to stretch myself in attempts to live out certain moods—like having a drink in the afternoon, or whiskey at the counter. Simply sitting in a café with a book and a beer in hand during the day was enough to satisfy me.
These were clear manifestations of my curiosity and my drive to seek out experiences for myself. In many ways, I’m still the same. Acting on impulse like that is, I believe, what has shaped who I am today.
The bottles lined up on my shelves now tell a similar story. Each one carries a small spark of curiosity, a moment when I decided to reach out and open a new door.Scotch pairs beautifully with a campfire. In Los Angeles, we often swapped it for mezcal. One bottle came from George Clooney’s tequila brand. I once read about a former Tokyo bookseller who began growing medicinal plants in Chiba and started distilling them—I had to try it right away. Then there are the Italian digestifs: grappa, limoncello, amaro. Craft gins from around the world, craft rums, craft bourbons. Shochu, wine, sake. Each bottle opens up another world.
What I love is that behind every one of them, there is a maker, each with their own thoughts and vision. And that thought always moves me—that is what makes me happiest.
A few years ago I watched the film Wine Calling, about winemakers with a free-spirited approach who ignored the industry’s “rules” and made wine according to their own philosophy. Sometimes they played guitar as they worked—the joy in their faces left a deep impression. If I’m going to drink wine, I want it to be made by people like that.
At sake shops in Japan, I often read menus that tell the stories of breweries from all over the country. I am touched by the thought that so many people pour their hearts into creating. The same is true with shochu. And of course, in Japan as well—realizing that so many people are creating with such devotion, it truly moves me.
So the bottles keep multiplying, and naturally, I need shelves to hold them. In America there is a type of furniture called a “home bar,” which serves both as storage and as a counter for pouring drinks. Stripped down and simplified, that became the shelf I made.
A friend—the one who first opened the door to mezcal for me—once sent me a favorite bottle. As I tried it, I messaged him: “What do you eat with this?” His reply came: “For me, with this and music, I can go until morning.”
What a line—so cool. Another unforgettable thing he said was his description of drinking tequila añejo: “It’s not shipping, it’s kissing.” Not like in the movies, where you pour it into a small glass, clink, and down it in one shot—but slowly, little by little, savoring the time.
Now then, it’s about time to dim the lights, choose the music, and decide which bottle to open tonight.
