There is something about a Japanese coffee shop that feels as though it belongs in a novel. Imagine an ageing proprietress making coffee in glass vessels behind a wooden counter; old jazz records playing in the background; a plate of egg sandwiches arriving alongside a porcelain cup. Outside, Tokyo rushes past in neon and steel. Inside, time seems to have misplaced its watch. It is easy to feel as though you have stepped into a Haruki Murakami novel and found yourself in a scene where the ordinary is just a little mysterious.



