“ALLL RIIIIIIGHT!” hollers our hostess from the center of the room. The sake arrives, we fill each other’s cups, we say cheers, his friendly eyes light up, and he leans in to tell me something. “Maybe, but for sure nobody here is forty,” I answer.
“Is anyone in here thirty?” he asks, subtly gesturing around the room. We are suddenly aware that we’re easily the oldest patrons in the house. A reggae cover of Michael Jackson’s “Don’t Stop ’til You Get Enough” spins on the turntable, and we sing along because it’s impossible not to. NORMAN JEAN ROYīut it is an experience, and we’re going to enjoy it. Vest and jeans by Double RL bracelet and silver-and-gold ring by Title of Work gold ring by Britt Bolton. It feels a bit like the world’s grooviest hostage crisis. The clock is ticking, and now we’re locked into a whole experience. Meanwhile, it’s six-thirty in the evening, and Pascal’s got dinner plans with his “very bossy, please don’t print that” little sister, Lux, at eight. Instead, it’s a (very good!) seven-course meal in a (very cool!) basement with a (very delicious!) sake pairing.
Which is not a coincidence-because that’s what I told him.īut Tokyo Record Bar is not that kind of place at all. Pascal thought that’s what it would be like, too. A few days earlier, I had polled a handful of clued-in New Yorkers with the following question: “What’s a good vinyl bar to take Pedro Pascal to?” Unanimous answer: Tokyo Record Bar! I was imagining a chill lounge space where we’d have some privacy to talk, play a few records, and maybe drink a little tequila. We’re sitting across a table from each other and occupying two of the twenty seats at the tiny Tokyo Record Bar on MacDougal Street in Greenwich Village. Pedro Pascal says this to me with a smile, which doesn’t mean that he’s joking.
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