Anecdotal Evidence: Sayonara to Mac and Mac Bar, Hiroshima, Japan

Mac, 1995 at a wedding.

You always think that you will return to your favorite watering holes in the world, maybe one last time, and all the people you knew, would be sitting right there where you left them, and it would be as if you never departed.

I always thought that I would get back to Mac Bar in Hiroshima, Japan — someday. As the years went on, and I moved back the States, got married and began raising children, that became less realistic, but I never shook the desire or the notion that I would return there someday. Even though the bar I went to in 1992-1993 changed locations, it would still be pretty much the same, I reckoned, with Mac spinning discs, his partner Yuri, smiling, maybe vaguely remembering me as the gaijin who only drank Coke, taking my drink order, or perhaps Boku-chan, Mac’s right-hand man.

A few months ago, word reached me that Mac’s final location in Hiroshima had closed down. Then I woke up Sunday morning to discover that Mac had passed away, one day shy of his 67^th birthday.

And so Mac’s — the 1990s location — now will only live in my memory.

How to describe Mac’s?

First and foremost, it was a “gaijin bar.” "Gaijin," meaning foreigners. Located in a prime spot at the convergence of two main shopping streets on the edge of town’s entertainment district, this is where the Americans, Brits, Aussies, Canadians one notable Frenchman, and such congregated late at night.

It was also a dive — the lone remaining business in a building that should have been condemned. You climbed up a set of narrow stairs with broken-out windows until you reached a heavy, steel door, then entered a tiny room that cold fit may fifteen people comfortably, but crammed in multitudes more. If it were late on a weekend night, the floor would be a toxic mix of cigarette ash, spilled beer and shards of broken glass. The second-hand smoke was stifling.

There to greet you was Mac, who between taking drink orders, was mostly preoccupied with digging out a CD or vinyl album from his vast collection to satisfy a customer’s request.

Yuri, the co-owner and Mac's life partner was the simply sweetest woman in Japan. She always greeted you with a warm smile, spoke excellent English and never seemed to get cross about anything — taking the antics of drunk foreigners in stride, and giving advice to newcomers such as myself. Like about 1,000 other gaijin men who arrived in Hiroshima, I had a crush on her the moment we met. It could be called the “Hiroshima Yuri Syndrome” as a foreign man walked into the bar, met her and was immediately smitten wondering if he had any chance. They didn’t. Soon, enough they were told, or figured out, that she was with Mac, and they moved on to some other probably very nice — but never as nice as Yuri — local woman.

Yuri and I at some party somewhere (1994?)

Mac’s was all about music. Mac was in the process of transitioning from vinyl to CDs when I arrived in 1992. He prided himself on being able to fill any request, although he reportedly wasn’t a big fan of Queen. He had a vast collection considering the small amount of space behind the bar. If you stumped him, he would scratch his head with his index finger, and either come up with the song after an extensive search, or apologize. He would take a mental note, though, and the next time you came, he had it. He had dug the record out of his collection at home, or bought the CD.

I’m sure I annoyed him with my habitual request for “A Dying Cubs Fan’s Last Request’ by Steve Goodman, but he never failed to play it.

I liked showing up right at 10 p.m. best, when there were few customers and Mac and I could talk music. And yes, he opened around 10 and stayed open until whenever. I did leave there on occasion when it was light outside.

I guess I was the oddball, the teetotaler who hung out at the bar all night.

I can’t say I knew Mac or Yuri as well as some of the long-timers in Hiroshima. My time there was short. I spent one year in Hiroshima, and one year in nearby Fukuoka. Yet in that brief time I met whom I consider some of my dearest friends in the world at Mac’s, even though I never get to see them anymore.

Neil Van Wouw, a Canadian computer programmer, and singer-guitar player in the town’s best band, AKA Toe Jam, became one of my best friends, and I still consider him as such even though I haven’t seen him in 15 years.

The same for Margaret Stalker, another Canadian, who upon meeting, when I asked her where she was from, said: “The capital of Canada. Do you know what that is?”

When I answered correctly, she decided we could become friends.
Richard Parker and Carol Rinnert, Jeff Beineke, Amanda Hyde, Alain Paquet, I met there, many of whom I am back in contact with thanks to the miracle of Facebook. If I recall correctly, the first time I saw Peter Berg at Mac's, he was dancing with a chair.

There are too many personal anecdotes to record here that began or ended at Mac’s. A few of them I am not proud of and it probably should remain that way.

The Mac Bar Baseball team, which actually played a game at Hiroshima Municipal Stadium, is a story that warrants its own blog.

There was the time I met a young American woman at Mac’s from Arizona, who asked me where I was from.

“Omaha.”

“Oh really, my Dad’s first cousin is from there.”

“What his name? Maybe I know him,” I said.

“Warren Buffet.”

(Look of surprise)

“Oh, but we’re not rich like him. He does give my dad free financial advice, though.”

I got into my second to last fistfight at Mac’s.

Some lanky Peruvian a head taller than me standing next to two Japanese women started swearing and cursing at me. I had never spoke or had any interaction with him before, so I could only guess he was trying to act tough in front of the two ladies. I stood there doing nothing until he said something about my glasses and attempted to either poke them or take them, at which point I landed two quick left jabs followed with a right hook, which put him down and shut him up.

The only regret I have was that I returned to Mac’s three hours later, and the Peruvian was still there. He came at me with a beer bottle declaring that he was going to kill me, but some others grabbed him from behind before he could get to me.

Later, Mac admonished me, but only for coming back the second time. A few weeks later, the Peruvian and I found ourselves back at Mac’s, but much earlier in the evening when he was sober.

“You two aren’t going to fight, are you?” Mac said chuckling, and we both sheepishly shrugged our shoulders.

I never found another place in Japan quite like Mac’s even though I ended up living there off and on another five years.

I send my deepest sympathizes to Yuri-chan and Boku-chan. And rest in peace Mac. Know that you created a place that will live on the hearts of so many like myself, who remember it and the three of you as being one of the best things about Japan.

Link here to the Mar Bar Facebook page.