Park Hyatt Breakfast
The light coming in through the gargantuan triangular windows of the 39th floor lobby gives the whole place a science fiction, city in the clouds type of vibe. Everything perfectly lit in the pure white of brunch time daylight.
Robotically moving men and women dressed in black encircle you as they remove your jackets and scarves and point you in the direction of your table. It’s the kind of setting that makes it hard to breath normally for fear of upsetting the crispy white linens or leaving a trail of breathy fog against the mirrored surface of the tableware.
‘It’s only breakfast’ you tell yourself.
The men and women clad in black continue to rotate around you.
One for your order, one with juice, one with water, one just to smile, one to beam at you awkwardly.
A baby in the distance begins to bang a fork against a bread plate. The jarring rhythm disrupts the perfect rotations of the attendees in black.
They break stride and flinch and try to logically find the most polite moment to put an end to the ambience defiant infant.
The grandmother does nothing but smile. The father looks stern but does nothing. The mother, at the opposite end looks carefree and oblivious to the ruckus. This is her morning off after all. She requested to eat her brunch here and was assured by grandmom that she would be relieved of all motherly duties and be allowed to eat in peace.
The clanging continues.
The attendants stop by one after the other, requesting peace, and being met with non-committal compliance.
The buffet has a spread of Italian cheeses and meats, a selection of fruits and delicious pastries for refined palettes. No maple bars or Krispy Kremes to be found. It’s all coffee cakes and pretentious scones. There is yogurt and some kind of gourmet oatmeal and seventeen kinds of milk in silver pitchers. The high life.
A scan of the room finds an international mix. Foreigners who no doubt envision themselves recreating the footsteps of Bill Murray’s joyless Lost in Translation character. Some music or creative types in ripped jeans and suit jackets, wearing identical thick framed glasses. Most likely not prescription.
The center table features some kind of photographer, name dropping and caught up in the elaborate tangles of his own industry speak. He is a primary player in his own game. Important enough to carry his camera and full bag of lenses to his breakfast, in case his cup of coffee suddenly fancies a portrait.
The attitudes match the table settings which match the emotionless encircling attendants. The freshness of the fruit and the tastiness of the other offerings solicits a worthy apology for the stilted heir of pretension.
And lastly there is the view, of the entire expanse of the world, just inches from that spot where your coffeecake with raspberry drizzle now resides.
In the foreground are the other titans of Shinjuku’s skyscraping district. Beyond that lies the emerald expanse of Yoyogi Park, lined in railways, dotted in apartments, freckled with local shops. And so the continuum of big buildings and bigger buildings continue until the horizon line vanishes and the other edge of Tokyo is tucked beyond the curve of the world.
It is in this view, that the complications of an over important clientele and a nearly unbreathable atmosphere dissolve. You sit there and observe the world. At least a portion responsible for housing 32 million of it’s inhabitants. You wonder what it’s all about between bites of proscuitto. How did it get here? How did you get here?
Another orange juice my fine sir.