A third late one as a result of a work related party. One of these days I’ll have to write about the Japanese version of networking. Until then, hostesses.

Back when I still lived in Niigata, my karate senseis would hold an annual New Years Party with all their students and several parents. The food was usually pretty good. However, because my friend Charles and I were technically adults (behavior not included) we were invited to drinks and more at a Japanese “snack bar”. A snack has little to do with food and a lot to do with alcohol and women.

Basically, a snack is a hostess club that doesn’t charge an entry fee but instead charges a fairly hefty two hour rate that includes basic appetizers and some drinks. The hostesses, or in this case the hostess, is usually attractive and/or charismatic and pours drinks and flirts with the customers to get them to spend money on drinks not included in the service charge. The idea is to get the customers drunk enough that they start spending money on drinks for the hostesses (which are not included in the fee) and on premium extras.

There is a fair amount of cleavage involved, dangerously shorts skirts and a few soft-core “Basic Instinct” moments. Now, because Charles and I weren’t paying, we tended to have a lot more fun than we should have. At one party, for reasons I still don’t understand, I ended up with a 1.8 liter bottle of premium Kubota manju sake to take home. (Note: if you can find a bottle of Kubota, grab it. It’s one of the best on the market.)

However, the evenings were not without their odd moments. Apparently the first time we went, either Charles or I sang the German version of “Genghis Khan” and the second time we went, I was expected to sing it. This request had two minor obstacles. 1) I didn’t actually know the tune and 2) I don’t speak German. Somehow I managed to blast out an impressive version that impressed the hostess. (Something tells me, though, I could have farted out the song and she’d have been impressed.)

At one point, Charles and I took turns slow dancing with the hostess–who, it should be added, spoke English well–however, at one point the hostess, for reasons that, well, for reasons, bit Charles on the neck hard enough to draw blood. At another point she slipped me her address and told me she wanted to see me again. (I don’t know if she did the same with Charles, or if the taste of his blood put her off him completely.)

Either way, I never called her up as I expected there would be more costs and bloodletting involved than I wanted to pay. To this day I wonder how much our senseis actually spent on all that. I also wonder, well, I just wonder.