North of the Crossing – Geronimo
One of the few significant attractions of this area is that, on the spectrum of responsible consumption on the one hand and the rock n roll approach on the other, most bars around here fall somewhere between thrash and Melodic Death Metal.
One exception which I think proves the rule comes from a summers evening years ago from a mate who found himself denied entry inside a well known Roppongi watering hole on the grounds of being smashed. While he concurred he was indeed, off his face, he could not for a single second entertain the idea they would seriously keep him out for it. And, thinking it some form of a joke, thus he spent over an hour trying to get the doorman to let him in while pretending to appreciate the joke, until he sobered up enough to realise the place in question wasn’t worth pretending to appreciate a joke at your expense for an hour at 3am on Wednesday morning.
The National Geographic equivalent of your typical Roppongi bar not welcoming a clearly intoxicated over 25 year old guy through their dark doors might be something akin to a wounded zebra stumbling upon a famished pack of lions, who then escort said zebra to the nearest US Embassy and help fill in the asylum seekers paperwork.
In Geronimo’s, meanwhile, you are extremely likely to remain unfeasted upon. Yet at the same time this bar is peerless when it comes to stuffing you with the excuses needed up for any subsequent debauchery, while allowing you to get beat the last train or your partner’s deadline. These days, back in my home country, should the staff of just about any regular bar or club nowadays find you’ve put away 15 shots in under an hour you’re likely to cop a three lifetimes ban from the place, in addition to being dobbed into one particular organization or another, from whose gentle, patient, stern clutches you shan’t be released until you gave in and confessed your problem drinking and perhaps your problem childhood thrown in for good measure.
On the other hand, confess your drinking problem inside this long-established bar on the 2nd floor near the Crossing, and you might be asked to prove it. Finish that 15th shot, of your choice, inside 60 minutes and, you’ll be immortalised with a (small) plaque on the wall replete with moniker, message and the date of the deed, along with a T-shirt. Even if you survive.
Which could be just as well if you wanna go on what I’ve witnessed here. Or haven’t. I’m sure it attracts a crowd from time to time given how long it’s been around, and it is a bar deserving of a decent following. Nonetheless in a half dozen visits, I don’t think a single toe would have been required to tally the number of fellow punters in the place. Thus one might want to regard that plaque as your insurance against all this hard work being, to quote Blade Runner’s leading antagonist Replicant, Roy Batty (played by Rutger Hauer) “lost in time, like…tears…in rain…time to… heave a bile tinged rainbow all over the lavatory walls” (I quote from memory).
And were indeed a replicant, or a robocop, the original A-Team, an original Predator, Billy Idol, Samantha Fox, the Breakfast Club, ZZ Top, Ivana Trump or a Predator, or any combination thereof, or indeed any other star from the 80’s were to stumble out of a toilet this place, perhaps wiping a bit of vomit spittle off his/her/its/their acid wash jeans before slumping back at the bar in dogged pursuit of those final shots, I’d fully understand it if you managed to come within a reasonable distance of taking it in your stride. Geronimo’s is soaked in the deepest hues of the areas autobahn drinking culture. Yet, at the same time it also manages to appear as something of a period piece, a holdover from when the area still had (vomit sized now that I’ve warmed to the theme) chunks, rather than trace elements, of frontier about it when there weren’t nearly as many gaijin about the place, leaving bar owners bar and club owners little choice but to cast a wide net.
For all its dodgy dark interior, and frat boy level drinking challenge, there’s a geniality here which wont be found in most other bars that catering mainly to gaijin. Producing a bar where you just go in and drink and chat is something nigh non completely lost in this neighborhood, which is always drinking and something else be it hunting chicks, being seen, watching sport or dancing or entertaining someone. And while a consequences of not having a dance floor is an older clientele, the whole joint has a look about it suggesting it hasn’t, and won’t, go to the trouble of specifically targeting them, say in the way A971 or Heartland, or even Motown does.
Who ought to have at least one drink here? So while it’s certainly the place for a group looking to kick things off Cape Kennedy style, you could do a lot worse than here if you wanted little more than a quiet beer.