"TAP BAR 10" The Color Bartender <1. Amber Pale Ale and the Masked Bride>

1. Amber Pale Ale and the Masked Bride

The back alleys of Ginza, once past twilight, take on a unique, damp humidity as if they have absorbed the bustle of the world above. The low engine hum of hired cars parked in front of high-end clubs, the laughter of salarymen looking for an izakaya, the sound of heels passing by in a hurry.
Mixed in with these, Makoto Tachibana sees things she would rather not. For instance, the stinging jealousy lurking behind laughter. The viscous echoes of lies leaking out from the gaps in greetings.
Voice tone, facial expressions, posture, or even the subtle movements of fingertips. In every fragment of such behavior, raw emotions and will are unconsciously and strongly embedded.
To Makoto's eyes, all of these appear as "colors" that reflect true feelings, overflowing from a person's silhouette. For someone telling a lie, a murky black is always mixed into even the most vivid colors. Someone harboring intense anger is wrapped in a stinging deep crimson, and so on.
In reality, it is more complex, and the uncontrollable noise of colors relentlessly erodes Makoto's senses.

"…Haa, it's noisy."
She instinctively pressed her temples with her fingers.
She thought she had finally gotten used to this troublesome constitution she had possessed since childhood, but on damp days like today, she was somehow particularly sensitive.

At the very corner of a small alley, turning past a long-established flower shop after entering from the main street.
As if shaking off the jumbled noise, she slowly descended the narrow stairs leading underground. As she took a deep breath, the air in her lungs was replaced with every step she descended. The sounds of the world above faded away, and instead, a cool silence crawled up from her feet.
The small wooden door at the end. She stroked the "TAP BAR 10" plate hanging in the center with her fingertips as if cherishing it.

Creak...
When she pulled the door, which was surprisingly heavier than it looked, an amber glass antique lamp lit up instantly. It was a prized find the owner apparently discovered in a back alley in Morocco. He had boasted, "It's a 100-year-old vintage," but in reality, he might have just been skillfully sold it by a souvenir shop targeting tourists. However, Makoto loved it immensely. A dense orange light, like boiled-down honey. It melted the cold air of the basement in an instant, filling every corner of the shop with a nostalgic warmth. It felt comfortable to experience the illusion of having wandered into a tavern in some old, nameless city in a distant foreign land.

The low hum of the refrigerated display case and the ticking of the old clock on the wall echoed through the shop.
"Somehow... the air feels heavy today. It's exhausting. Right, Pyoko-ta?"
Pyoko-ta is a small frog figurine sitting next to the register. This, too, was a souvenir the owner bought from somewhere. She wasn't very good at being alone, so she had given it a name on her own and had it be her conversation partner.

When she entered the counter, pushing the small swing door with her hip, she first washed her fingers one by one, carefully, down to the tips. After confirming there was no dirt, she tightened her navy apron. Having worked here for a few years now, she was used to the pre-opening routine.
Taking a soft linen cloth in hand, she wiped down the ten brass taps one by one.
Squeak, squeak, the sound went.
When she grazed the tips of the taps, a faint vibration traveled through the metal and returned to her fingertips. The temperature of the beer being chilled in the server, the degree of carbonation dissolution. She always thought this process of adjusting them one by one was like tuning a piano. Well, she had hardly ever played a piano, though.

Clack. The service entrance behind her opened.
"Hey, Makoto-chan. Thanks for your hard work today!"
From behind a large wooden crate, the owner of the neighborhood greengrocer, Cho-san, peeked his face out. As always, his voice was a reassuring orange.
"Thank you for your hard work. Did you make it with yesterday's tomatoes? I'm really sorry, always ordering at such a late hour..."
"It's fine, it's fine. I brought them right away! Just happened to get some good ones from Kumamoto. Still, I'm beat. Earlier, in front of the hotel on Chuo-dori, several refrigerated trucks were stuck."
"Chuo-dori... you mean Grand Hotel K?"
"Yeah. I had to make a delivery there too, but they wouldn't budge, so I had to carry them by hand halfway. Thanks to that, my back is a wreck."
"Several refrigerated trucks at this hour... that's rare."
"Right? That hotel is supposed to have a rule that refrigerated deliveries are until 8 AM. Plus, the first truck stopped in a weird way. The ones behind it couldn't move either, just kept humming. More importantly... what's wrong?"
Cho-san placed the wooden crate on the table with a clatter and peered at the wrinkle between Makoto's brows from over the counter.
"Can you see something strange again?"
"...No, it's just that the humidity is high today. I've never been good with this kind of air since I was little."
"Makoto-chan was famous for being a 'sunny girl' since your vending days, after all. But rain isn't all bad, either. For vegetables and fruits, it's the water of life. Anyway, go ahead and bite into the tomatoes I brought."
"Thank you. Will you be staying for a drink later today?"
Cho-san had been a regular who had been coming to the shop for years, and he loved to chat idly with the owner at the counter. She was often included in their fast-paced, comedic-duo-like conversations.
"I still have work left. If I finish early, I'll come."
"Understood. Please, take care of your back. Don't push yourself."
"Yeah. Makoto-chan, don't push yourself too hard either!"

Cho-san left like a storm.
In the wooden crate left behind, softball-sized tomatoes were lined up in an orderly fashion. Twenty-two of them. Two were likely a bonus. As always, it was careful work. You couldn't imagine it from that rough tone of voice.
Recently, perhaps due to an emphasis on efficiency, only expressionless vegetables packed mechanically were on the market. But Cho-san's were different. They smelled of soil, and each one had weight.
When she chose the smallest one from inside and gently picked it up, it was heavy. It was like a rock.
"This would be amazing with cheese..."
It was the first time she had seen a tomato so packed with substance. She would pair it with mozzarella and make caprese.

"...Can I have one of those too?"
A clear, ringing voice suddenly sounded from behind. The part-timer, Go Shinomiya. Apparently, he had slipped in from the back service entrance again.
Standing well over 180 centimeters tall, with refined features like a K-pop idol. He had good posture and a dignified presence that reminded one of a student council president at a prestigious school. However, he had tomato juice smeared all over his mouth.
(This kind of gap—in a shojo manga, he'd definitely be in a popular position, so why is he so disappointing?)

"Good morning! Just now, when I tried to greet Cho-san, he tossed one into my mouth. This is incredibly sweet!"
His sparkling eyes confirmed those words.
"Go, good morning. You have a beautiful face as always today."
"Hehe. Well, I can't beat you, Makoto-san."
"More importantly,"
"Huh?"
"First, wipe your mouth. And also, your time card."
"Ah, right."
The way he lost his composure and scrambled toward the register was like a large dog wagging its tail.
Go was a college student part-timer who joined about a year ago, and he helped out mainly on weekends and especially busy days. He was mainly in charge of food preparation and cleaning, so he wasn't always out front. Even so, he was so well-rounded that customers would sometimes ask, "Where did you find such a good young man!" Really, where did he pick him up? The owner's scouting ability was remarkable.

"Go! I'm making that into caprese."
"Understood. I'll get it done. Leave it to me."
Since instructions could be finished in just this one sentence, it was easy. He was the kind of competence you'd want one of in every household, but she wouldn't tell him that, as he'd get carried away.
While listening to the sound of him skillfully starting the prep work from the kitchen in the back, she shifted her consciousness.

What this bar had were ten types of craft beer carefully selected by the owner who had (apparently) traveled the world. The lineup changed on a whim.
Taste, color, throat feel, foam. With just the shape of the glass, its expression changed dramatically. This was something she didn't know until she was hired here. As she touched upon its depth, before she knew it, providing a glass of beer in its best condition had become her pride.
It felt strange to remember the days when she was a vendor at the baseball stadium during her college years. Back then, it was a world where the competition was just about how many cups of the same brand of beer you could sell. (Bringing a mere vendor with no knowledge or experience to a bar and making her the manager. The owner really is crazy.)
Although, listening to the owner's trivia and gaining knowledge was simply interesting as well. And based on that knowledge, delivering beer to customers in its best condition was her current role.

She gently turned the regulator dial with her fingertips.
Beer is a living thing. On days like today when humidity clings to everything, the gas in the keg expands and easily gets grumpy. To design the ideal throat feel so as not to lose to the heaviness of the air, she fine-tuned the gas pressure.
If you increase the pressure, you get a stimulating throat feel; if you keep it low, the profound taste of the malt stands out. She sought out the most delicious answer that the style possessed.

When she turned the glass upside down on the rinser equipped at the counter, a sharp water pressure cleaned the inside. While still damp, she lined them up one by one, carefully matching the ten types of the day.
As a finishing touch, when she pulled the tap handle toward her, she purged just a few millimeters of the first mouthful that had remained in the server's tube.

"...Alright."
In the blink of an eye, the clock hand was about to pass six in the evening.
She hurried out of the counter.
Then, as if it were a ritual to prepare her own heart, she slowly flipped the "OPEN" sign at the entrance.

◇

—Click, click, click.
6:12 PM. From beyond the door, the sound of dry heels slowly approached.
It wasn't a sound she was familiar with, but it was light, and one could even feel a certain strong will. The sound of someone descending step by step, as if shaking off hesitation.

The door opened.
Along with the dry sound of a cowbell, what slipped in was an out-of-place whiteness that seemed to tear through the veil of night.
A mermaid dress with a beautiful silk luster that accentuated the lines of her body. In her right hand, a small clutch bag of the same color as the dress was gripped so tightly that her fingertips were turning white. In her loosely curled chignon, a stylish glittery headdress clung like a star.

"Welcome."
She tried to speak as calmly as possible.
However, the moment her gaze met hers, the pit of her stomach turned cold and shrank.
A pitch-black purple. Her field of vision was instantly hijacked by the overwhelming noise of colors she had brought in. It was a viscous, dark purple sediment rising from behind her, as if to erode the white of her blessing.
It looked like the sound of regret, too heavy and sticky for a bride to wear.

"Hey... is it true that you only have beer here?"
The voice of the woman who had slipped into the end of the counter and sat down was parched and dry.
"Yes. We specialize in beer. Unfortunately, we don't have anything other than beer."
When Makoto answered with a slight lean forward, she let out a faint smile.
"...That's perfect. Right now, sweet cocktails and celebratory champagne make me want to vomit."
From the throat of the woman who laughed self-deprecatingly, a rejection red like sharp sparks burst with a snap.

When she suddenly raised her gaze, her lips, tied at close range, caught her eye. The rouge, carefully applied from the lip line, was elegantly finished in orange-beige, in contrast to the glamour of the dress. She was a little older than herself, perhaps in her mid-thirties.
She dropped her gaze to her hands. On the ring finger of her left hand, a simple solitaire ring. A shine without a single scratch, reflecting light like a mirror. However, even that innocent diamond looked dull, eroded by the purple sediment she wore.
In contrast, the gold on her pinky finger had a slightly retro design with fine carvings, and a small sapphire was embedded in the center. That ring, which showed careful tailoring, was likely a little too big. Every time she moved her finger, it spun around, further accentuating her slender finger.
Furthermore, her long, snow-white nails, which looked as if they might break at any moment, were stiff and tense.

When she put down the cloth she had been using to wipe the counter, she slowly stood in front of her.
Now then, where should she start tuning this noise? With which glass could she loosen the shadow lurking in her chest? Her instinct as a bartender sharpened quietly and keenly.

"...Can I have a menu?"
The woman, who had been sitting in silence for a while, muttered in a low voice while staring at her own fingertips thrown onto the counter. Makoto straightened her back slightly while confirming her posture.
"The food menu is here."
She pointed to the small blackboard next to the counter.
"Um... what about beer?"
"At our shop, we have ten types of beer that vary depending on the day. If you'd like, I can choose a glass that suits you."
"Does that mean, leave it to you?"
In the eyes of the woman who suddenly looked up, not even a hint of heat resided. The viscous purple silence, as if she had thrown everything away, pressed on Makoto's senses.
"Yes. It is a flat rate of 1,500 yen per glass."
"...Then, could I have one?"
"Understood."
Makoto placed both hands under her navel and bowed over the counter.

Inside the counter, she faced the taps.
First, she wanted to calm the rejection red that was bursting with snaps at her throat. However, a cold stimulus that just hit the throat wouldn't be enough. She wanted something mellow and easy to drink, yet with deep depth. What she needed right now was a glass with the capacity to melt into her body temperature.
From among the ten taps, she reached for the third tap from the left.

Belgian Pale Ale.
An ester aroma like ripe fruit, brewed by Belgian yeast. She would wrap her roughened senses in layers of fruity aroma, and with a gentle bitterness, land her fluttering heart onto the ground.
She tilted the tulip-shaped glass, which luxuriously embraced the aroma, at a 45-degree angle. When she pulled the tap toward her, the liquid that had been aging in the server slid into the bottom of the glass, drawing a smooth curve.

Shhh...
A secret sound like silk sliding, echoing in the silence. Makoto concentrated only on the sensation in her fingertips, sharpening her nerves to the very last drop.
As a finishing touch, she gently capped it with foam as fine as velvet.

"Thank you for waiting. This is a Belgian Pale Ale."
She slowly slid the glass, in which the amber beer swayed quietly, onto the coaster.
In the glass, fine bubbles rose like stars.
"...It's a beautiful color."
She wrapped the glass with both hands.
However, she didn't take a sip immediately. Without moving a muscle, she stared intently at the amber liquid. As if to confirm something.
Then, a few seconds later, she slowly let her throat ring.

Gulp, gulp, gulp.
Behind her as she let her throat ring, the red that had been bursting with snaps slightly weakened its momentum.
It hadn't disappeared completely. It just looked as if the tips of the sharp thorns had been wrapped in the beer's soft foam and rounded off just a little.

"What is this... it's beer, but it has the scent of spices."
She looked up, surprised.
"Yes. When people think of pale ale, British or American is mainstream, but this one is Belgian."
She brought her lips to the glass again, as if drawn to it.
"It's characterized by a slightly spicy aroma. It's not just sweet, but it's not just bitter either... the complex yet balanced, gorgeous spice flavor should free your heart just a little."
"...Free."
As if savoring the words, this time she tilted the glass gently.
"This looks like a pretty deep color, though. 'Pale' means light, right?"
"Yes. Originally it's a lighter color, but since it's Belgian, it has a slightly deeper hue. Also, I took the liberty of seeing your pure white dress and thought it resembled a bride's veil."
"A veil..."
"I wanted to serve this glass, which hides a strong will behind its light hue, to you right now."
She twitched her shoulders. Her fingertips wrapping the glass tightened. A slight shadow fell between her brows, and a distorted wrinkle that was neither rejection nor hesitation formed.
Had she stepped too far into personal territory? Makoto straightened her posture as if to shake off the slight hesitation that had sprouted within her.
"I apologize."
Saying that, she lowered her chin slightly, and while keeping her gaze down, she used her fingertips to fix the slight misalignment of the coaster.

"...Free. That's right, I wonder if I can become just 'me' once I take off this dress."
The words she let spill out quietly disappeared onto the counter like the foam of the beer.
Instead of answering, Makoto gently traced the deep purple swaying behind her with her gaze. Within that sediment, a golden color like an echo was mixed in like a thin thread. What on earth could be the meaning of this color?

"That dress suits you very well, ma'am."
As she called out while quickly tidying up the counter area, she lowered her eyes.
"...Really? Thank you."
"I used to work part-time at a hotel bridal salon a little while ago. I was close with the banquet staff, and I remember talking about how few people choose mermaid-style dresses because they are difficult to wear well."
"Certainly, it's not the mainstream choice. Still, I learned for the first time this time. That for choosing a dress, the fabric and fit are more important than the visual impression. It's no good if you're just being worn by it."
She smiled a little sadly while tracing the rim of the glass. Her gaze was somewhere far away, looking at a place that wasn't here.
Makoto narrowed her eyes quietly at that slight fluctuation in her expression.

"But, you must have some special circumstances."
The fingertips tracing the glass stopped completely. When she slowly looked up, she raised the corners of her mouth self-deprecatingly.
"...Me? Did I have such a complicated face just now?"
"No, not at all. It's just that I felt a slight sense of discomfort."
"Discomfort?... That's interesting. Let me hear it."
Eyes looking straight at her with sharp eyes. At that gaze that seemed to be testing something, she instinctively straightened her back.

"Brides want to take off their dresses the moment the ceremony is over."
"Eh...?"
"No matter how beautiful it is, a dress is also a tight and heavy armor. Once its role is finished, you want to get into comfortable clothes as soon as possible and take a breather. But you are wearing it as if it were a part of your own skin, and with the posture that makes you look the most beautiful. That looked like a very strong determination to me."
For a moment, she stared blankly at the sky. Then, as if she couldn't hold it back, she let out a small laugh.
"...Ahaha! Armor, huh. Really, that's right. Heavy, painful, the worst kind of armor."
As if a spirit had been exorcised, she relaxed her shoulders and leaned her elbows lightly on the counter.
"I'm beat. That's right, I'm not a bride."
"I'm the one who... stepped into personal territory... I apologize."
She bowed slightly so as not to make a sound.

"You aren't shaken at all, are you? Usually, people would laugh at a woman who's acting like a bride and call her a fool."
"I wouldn't laugh. Not at someone who wears a dress so beautifully."
When she smiled back gently, she let her gaze wander a little and poured the remaining pale ale down her throat in one gulp.
The gorgeous hops smelled softly. The lips of the woman who placed the glass down were slacker and a little softer than before.
"...Somehow, I felt like talking to someone today. When I was riding the subway alone, I should have been thinking that I wanted to disappear without anyone noticing. It's strange. When I come here, my mouth becomes looser than I'd expect."

She looked up suddenly and stared at Makoto with eyes that were a little challenging, yet looked like she was about to cry.
"Hey, are you the manager here?"
"Yes. Though I am still young and inexperienced."
"Then, I'll call you Manager. Manager, have you ever... hated someone to death?"
At the sudden question, her field of vision burned with a prickling sensation. Deep in her eyes, the colors were writhing, trying to change their shape.
At the same time, she heard something she had pushed deep into her chest creak. The afterimage of an old memory flickered for just an instant. However, Makoto steadied her breath quietly so as not to let her realize it.
"I might not possess emotions to that extent. However... there are times when I want to run away from my own incompetence."
Makoto slowly steadied her breath and looked straight into her eyes once again.
"Have you had experiences that were painful enough to make you hate someone?"

A few seconds of silence.
In the glass, the bubbles popped small and sharp.
At the same time, the colors behind her flashed violently. A viscous red like blood began to mix into the cold blue.
The next moment, the words spat out cut through the air of the bar like sharp ice shards.

"You see, today, I went to crash the wedding reception of the man who dumped me."
The woman's mouth corners twisted crookedly.

"To kill that guy who's at the peak of happiness with these hands."

[To be continued]

2. Jet-Black Stout and the Masked Bride

3. Hazy IPA in the Mist and the Mysterious Man (Part 1)

4. Hazy IPA in the Mist and the Mysterious Man (Part 2)

5. Copper Rauchbier and Lost Memories (Part 1)

6. Copper Rauchbier and Lost Memories (Part 2)