Bagels, Slices, and Simulacra in Azabujuban
Nishiazabu: a neighborhood of status and wealth. Boutique-lined streets. Housewives strolling midday with designer dogs in tow, their husbands probably deep in some high-paying consulting gig. English floats through the air, casually spoken, not for your benefit but because these residents probably attended international schools. I’m also fairly certain this neighborhood served as the backdrop for Sailor Moon, which inspired waves of weebs to pack up their lives and attempt assimilation into Japanese society. I may or may not be guilty of the same—Tokyo Tower glimmers in the background, just like the anime. The simulacrum is complete.
As someone born in Queens and raised on Long Island (I no longer steal city valor when I introduce myself), I miss certain things after six years in Japan. Small talk. People understand sarcasm as a love language. And yes, bagels and pizza—not the Italian kind, the New York kind. So when I heard that spots were serving both, well, it would’ve been unethical not to investigate. I suited up with my unfortunately (according to my wife) oval-shaped gullet and hit the streets.
NEW NEW YORK CLUB Bagel & Sandwich Shop
This shop barely fits two people. There’s no stray cat weaving between your legs, but the vibe is right. A lone bench outside seats two—maybe not ideal for the MK crowd (sorry to the editor)—but who among us hasn’t eaten a sandwich while squatting on a Tokyo curb, trying not to spill ketchup in their facial hair?
Still, credit where credit’s due: Japan’s attention to detail elevates even this humble sandwich. Even their attempt at recreating a bodega feels spiritually aligned—rooted not in lived experience, but in their obsessive media reconstructions of places they’ve only seen in passing. It’s a simulacrum, sure, but one that hits close enough to home.
I wish the owner had been in—yeah, poor reporting on my part. I wanted to grill him. Not literally. But maybe a light sauté. So instead, I invented a backstory: a starry-eyed traveler wanders into a New York deli one early morning, bleary-eyed, orders a bacon, egg, and cheese (salt, pepper, ketchup—BECSPK, you know the code), and is transformed. He returns to Tokyo, deadass vowing to recreate the experience for unsuspecting Tokyoites. It probably didn’t happen that way. But now it’s lore.
Also, the disorder—by Japanese standards—makes this place feel right. There’s something about the plain white tees, the Yankees fitted, the tattoos. I had to peer over the counter to check if they were wearing Timbs. Sadly, no. I’ll probably gift them a pair next time, to sit on a shelf—an offering to the simulacrum gods.
As far as bagels in Japan go, this is the new reigning champ. (Bagel & Bagel? Fine. But it never really healed me.) This one got close. Which is all you can ask for.
Nim’s Pizza
Hip hop’s blasting. “Crazy in Love” starts playing as I bite into a hot pepperoni slice—almost like the place knew exactly what kind of New York fantasy I was here to fulfill. And they delivered.
The ambiance is uncanny. A counter girl in no uniform. Male workers in white tees and aprons. There’s an unspoken pizzeria sociology at work here. You either feel it, or you don’t. The hierarchy. The rhythm. It screams real in that distinctly New York way.
I had to stop myself from saying “Forget about it.” Who am I? Am I becoming the very archetype I once mocked? The longer I’m away, the more I start to morph—like the simulated version of myself Japan imagined I’d be.
Again, the little things: garlic powder and oregano shakers identical to the ones back home. No powdered cheese, though—maybe the economy swallowed that one. (Even Seizerya’s cutting corners now.) I caught my reflection in the steel pizza oven, smiling like an idiot, and thought about my teenage years delivering pies in Nassau County. Just then, the delivery guy walked in to grab the next one. We locked eyes. Some silent, eternal pizza code was exchanged.
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