Sad chain izakaya moments in smoke like this. No one likely to take pictures of their food here. Can’t do better than the images on the oversized black cracked electronic tablet that doubles as the menu. Saves money, saves training, saves energy. Everyone slightly disappointed in here: with what job they wound up with, where they had to wind up eating because other places were too crowded, small greasy ceramic plates stacking up. Something has got to give. Y folds her wet hand towel into the shape of an erect penis that starts to droop the second we leave the table. S slaps a birthday balloon on the way out, evidence of some sort of “party” taking place at the table behind us. “Don’t touch me,” someone there says in wobbly-but-determined English to us as we pass, but it’s too late. None of us want to touch anything anymore.