![]() ![]() ![]() Having established a baseline of crap coffee, I looked forward to sitting down in the kinds of smoky- yes, smoky- jazz filled cafes I’ve romanticized through years of reading Haruki Murakami novels. It tasted about like it looked: a black punch in the nose of bitterness and smoke. It had a few characteristics of actual flavor and was, after all, HOT COFFEE IN A CAN. It was magically both harsh and also bodiless. BOSS BLACK had a lethal looking can with a picture of what looked like Stalin(or possibly Tom Selleck) smoking a pipe on the front. Upon arrival at Tokyo, Narita, I went straight to a vending machine and purchased a hot black coffee in a can, at the urging of fellow travelers. ![]()
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