Your favorite place.

I walked into one of my favorite places in NYC last night, and there was no music playing. There would always be music playing at Rockmeisha, usually some rock or blues hit from the 60s, along with the sound of pots being stirred, the microwave whirring to life, a waiter or waitress shouting, “Irasshaimase!”

There were bar stools stacked in the middle of the bar, cleaning equipment in various states of use, a waiter who I recognized turned around from the bar and handed me a PBR from a half-empty box. Kondo-san said, “We’re closed!”

I asked if I could sit at the bar, and he extended his hand with a smile, just like the many times before, and I sat at Rockmeisha for the last time.

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What are some of your favorite places in NYC? Why do you enjoy going there? What memories does that place hold for you?

Rockmeisha had been in NYC for 16 years, a feat in itself. It was a small Japanese izakaya that served bar food and mega-sized Sapporos. I’ve brought my fair share of friends here over the years and have even met new ones along the way. A small flat screen TV sits on the corner of the bar playing vintage Japanese wrestling videos. Baseball trinkets and anime figures line the counter above the bar. A jukebox is populated with Kondo-san’s personal collection of 7-inches, heavy on the Beatles and the Stones. His wife, Masako-san, works quietly behind the stove, turning the fryer baskets, constructing small plates.

Always, you walk out with your clothes smelling like a mixture of fryer grease, fish, and spilled beer. Always, your eyes burn because of the smoke lingering in the low-ceilinged space, the ventilation in the small kitchen trying to keep up with the joyous food he serves.

And yes, his food is truly joyous. You can’t help but be surprised when you try brie paired with Japanese pickles for the first time. Or weep gently at a simple dish of scrambled eggs with chives. Or smile from ear-to-ear when he brings you a bowl of ramen. Each bowl is made-to-order, never a moment before, giving care and respect to each ingredient.

On my 2nd PBR, the silence was deafening. I played Dylan from my phone, and set it atop the row of “small” Sapporo mugs he had on the bar. I asked them about the farewell party from the previous night, the waiter sharing photos from his phone. Kondo-san told me that it wasn’t just one night of celebrating, but 7 days of revelry.

One story I will recount here, as told to me by Kondo-san:

Earlier in the week, a new customer peeked his head into the restaurant. I had never seen this person before, but since it was quite busy, I told him we weren’t able to serve him that evening.

He came back the next day...with his dog. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to accommodate his dog inside, so he left.

The third day, we were less busy, so he was able to get a seat. He asked if we did take-out, and I said sure. He chose a few things off our limited menu and ordered a beer to wait. All the while, from behind the bar, I could see him looking around the restaurant: the people coming in, the types of things they were ordering, what they were drinking, trying to understand what sort of place he was in.

He called me over and asked if I had anything other than beer. I told him about my grandfather’s sake, and that he could order a cup or a bottle. He was amazed that he had never been to this place before and said he planned on bringing in some friends next week. I told him unfortunately, this was our last week in business. He was shocked. He proceeded to order me, the waiter, and himself a round of my grandfather’s sake. He changed his order from take-out to eat-in.

After that, I don’t remember how many more rounds of sake he bought for us.

All the while, Kondo-san kept bringing food to me and another frequent customer who had joined us at the bar, which consisted of whatever he had left in the kitchen. For a place that was closed, there was still some joy left. 

When I sat down at the bar, he gifted me a foil-wrapped Japanese meatball sandwich, with toasted pain au lait (from Trader Joe’s, no less) and shredded cabbage.

On my 2nd beer, he served me a skewer of bacon-wrapped scallops. Was it the delicate yakitori I’ve had from other restaurants, perfect in construction and geometry? No. Was it the perfect foil for the cheap American beer we were drinking, holding back the overwhelming sadness we were feeling? Yes.

Between the scotch and the beer, he brought out a small dish of takowasa, a dab of wasabi on the outer rim of the plate. For the last few times I came here, I would always order this first.

After he stepped out to pick up ice from around the block (he ran out of ice last night), he gave us a plate of char siu odds and ends with some sort of hard white cheese. The waiter there explained that he bought Kondo-san an air fryer since the landlord had turned off the restaurant’s ventilation system. Without ventilation, that didn’t leave him a lot of choices on what he could cook. But he wanted Kondo-san to keep cooking, so he could continue to get paid as well. The air fryer was the solve—and if there was any reason to support having an air fryer—this was the best reason I had heard.

I forget what number drink we were at, but then he magically brought out 3 small bowls of ramen. These weren’t the hearty bowls of Hakata ramen he normally served with slices of fatty pork, a mound of scallions, and red ginger. It was just his signature milky broth, thin noodles, and a few leaves of spinach. The Beatles album I had put on had stopped at this point, so the only sounds were of all of us slurping our noodles. Kondo-san was behind the bar eating as well, the first time I had seen him eat at his restaurant in all these years.

I opened another beer, but knew I wouldn’t be able to finish it. A few more customers dipped their heads in, but he turned them away—telling people they were closed. Some offered their condolences, most walked away knowing that it was hard to ignore the inevitability of these times now, perhaps shaking their heads for not stopping by earlier that week, month, or year.

I asked Kondo-san for the bill, and he just said, “We’re closed.” I didn’t know how to pay him for the years of solace Rockmeisha offered me. And I didn’t know what any sort of payment meant to him now. This was a place I will never not associate with New York City. It represented—and still represents—why I love this city, even when it breaks your heart. 

Rockmeisha was a place where I could always find like-minded eaters, drinking buddies, and eventually, friends. Rockmeisha was also a place where I could just be alone with my thoughts, Kondo-san playing a soundtrack that always sounded perfect at the time or a Japanese drama that distracted me from this world. It now recedes into whatever comes next, somewhere I will point out to people in the future. “Let me tell you about this place…”

I shook hands with the waiter, Kondo-san, and the customer next to me. I packed up my things and started to walk out; Kondo-san rushed from behind the counter and walked me to the front door. He shook my hand again out on Barrow St, bowing and thanking me. Inevitably, I took one step, and then another, the smell of food still clinging to my clothes.

UPDATE: Rockmeisha has opened again! Please go visit them and say hi to Kondo-san!