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It was in Osaka, eight years ago, on the first evening of the late autumn rains. After a hard day at PSAM 6, my head ached.
I sat in a small yakatori joint in Kita Shinchi, nursing a sake, when a guy wandered in and ordered a shochu straight up. From the look of his shoes, I knew he was French. I soon found out that we had more in common than just Japanese booze and chopsticks.