The barista didn't look up.

Six seats. One barista. No menu on the wall. The hojicha came in a cup the color of wet stone, and she didn't look up when she set it down. That was the first good sign.

Outside, the Meguro river was doing its sakura thing for the tourists. Down here, two flights below street level, it was quieter. A clock somewhere ticked at half-speed. The man two seats over was reading a paperback and had been there, by the look of his cup, for an hour. [^1]

Hojicha is roasted. That's the whole secret. The leaves are pulled past green into something almost woody, and the brew comes out the color of a pine floor in a house your grandparents owned. It tastes like that floor smelled.

I asked, eventually, where the beans came from. She said Shizuoka and went back to wiping down the steam wand. The conversation, such as it was, ended there.

I have thought about the room more than the drink. Both were good. The room was better.

[^1]: I came back the next day. She remembered the order. She did not remember me.