LINDA WERTHEIMER, HOST:
It's an old cliche - the boozy customer at the bar, pouring out his woes to the bartender. In Japan, there are some bartenders who are specifically in the business of dispensing advice and, they hope, some spirituality as well. Lucy Craft stopped in for a drink and has this enlightened report.
(SOUNDBITE OF DRINKS BEING POURED)
LUCY CRAFT, BYLINE: Another Friday night at this tiny neighborhood watering hole. By 7:30, the barstools and tables in this cozy joint are filling up. Office workers settle in with their cocktails and Kirin beers. And by a little after 8, it's time for the main act.
(SOUNDBITE OF BELLS CHIMING)
UNIDENTIFIED MAN: (Chanting in foreign language)
CRAFT: The Vow's Bar in Tokyo's Yotsuya neighborhood has no house band, no widescreen TV, no jukebox. But it does have a chanting Buddhist monk, so tipplers can get a side of sutras with their Singapore Slings - or something even more exotic.
(SOUNDBITE OF ICE CLINKING)
CRAFT: A pair of younger monks - conspicuous in their shaved heads, bare feet and religious garb - man the bar.
(SOUNDBITE OF DRINK BEING SHAKEN)
CRAFT: For a non-Buddhist American like me, they shake up an order of the house specialty, shakunetsu jigoku. That means Burning Hell. Boy, they're not kidding.
Oh, my God.
(SOUNDBITE OF LAUGHTER)
CRAFT: This city is said to be honeycombed with 10,000 nightspots, most no bigger than an American living room. So to Japanese, it makes perfect sense that Buddhist monks would run their own themed bars complete with incense, mandala sacred posters and religious altars. As for the monks themselves, they say that tending bar is - ironically - one of the best ways of connecting with their roots.
GUGAN TAGUCHI: (Foreign language spoken)
CRAFT: Head monk Gugan Taguchi says: In the old days, temples were the center of community life. Then the temples grew powerful. Monks started getting rich, running funerals. They started to feel superior to their followers. That's not what the job is about.
Trying to suss out just what their job is about has prompted a younger generation of Japanese monks to start rock bands, open coffee shops, and rent out their temples to theatrical productions and concerts as they search for ways of making themselves as central to their communities as their forefathers were back in the 15th century. To these men of the cloth, in other words, it's high time get out of the temple and go to where their flocks are.
UNIDENTIFIED WOMAN: (Foreign language spoken)
CRAFT: Among tonight's flock, an office worker who said she spent an hour getting here to seek counsel from the monks. She doesn't offer details, but the monks say they're asked about everything from wayward boyfriends to office politics.
UNIDENTIFIED MAN: (Foreign language spoken)
CRAFT: One of the younger monks says: I tell people not everything is pre-ordained or destiny. Love and affection change. So sometimes, there's no point to trying to hang onto a relationship.
The transition from austere temple to honky-tonk is not easy, the head monk confesses.
TAGUCHI: (Foreign language spoken)
CRAFT: He says: At the temple, folks are always well-behaved and attentive, no matter how long or boring the sermon is. Here at the bar, if they don't like my sermons, they walk out.
But for customers looking to get their advice straight up and their spirits lifted, the Buddhist bar is one place where there's always a sympathetic ear, all night long.
For NPR News, this is Lucy Craft in Tokyo.
(SOUNDBITE OF MUSIC)
WERTHEIMER: It's NPR News.
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