My first trip to Kyoto was an exhausting three-day bender. I rose at 5 a.m. to see the sunrise from Fushimi Inari, spent a small fortune Ubering between temples, and probably snapped a terabyte’s worth of photos of geiko, monks, and monkeys. I departed the ancient city with the nagging feeling that I had simultaneously seen everything and nothing—a regret akin to rushing through a magnificent dinner.
When I returned this past summer with my girlfriend, I kept in mind Kipling’s advice to the traveler: “The first condition for understanding a new country is to smell it.” With the UNESCO sites safely ticked off, I wanted to savor Kyoto slowly. Mornings in coffee shops with a book. Afternoon strolls through Gion to admire art, watches, and antiques. Dinners at out-of-the-way izakaya, perhaps followed by nightcaps at bars recommended by waiters. Like a Heian roué, I would lounge, loiter, and lollygag my way through Kyoto.
A City Too Beautiful for Haste
In the spirit of dolce far niente, I splurged on a room at Imperial Hotel, Kyoto. The brand had won me over after a stay at Imperial Hotel Tokyo—a favorite among visiting heads of state and Hollywood stars, and, for my money, Japan’s answer to the Plaza. The Imperial has perfected the art of blending omotenashi, Japanese hospitality, with Western luxury. I enjoy a hotel room with ukiyo-e prints, hinoki wood trim, and a silk yukata as much as the next man, but I also require an Italian espresso machine, a rain shower, and a king-sized mattress.
Opened earlier this year, Imperial Hotel, Kyoto has already earned a Michelin Key. The 55-room property occupies the restored Yasaka Kaikan, a theater built in 1936 and registered as a Tangible Cultural Property of Japan. In the heart of Gion, the building retains the copper-tiled roof and castellated façade from its days as a performing arts hall. Walk out to the gravel walkway behind the lobby—you’ll find a small Shinto shrine that once served resident thespians.
After check-in, the staff presented us with a lacquered tray of chilled sencha and wagashi, traditional confections. The lobby was a jewel box of prized Japanese woods. Wall panels of hinoki, a cypress usually reserved for temples and shrines. Polished chestnut and cedar trim. Furniture crafted from cherrywood. Jackie, an architecture nerd, pointed out the influence of Frank Lloyd Wright. The former theater’s design drew from the style of the American master, who was in turn profoundly influenced by Japanese architecture.
We’d been looking forward to dinner in Gion, but our quarters were so sumptuous that we nearly opted for room service. With a bottle of the minibar’s Horin Junmai Daiginjo, a sublime Kyoto sake, we lounged on the balcony as the setting sun dyed the alleyways of Gion amber. The Jacuzzi bath came with a basket of onsen salts and was spacious enough for two. One appetite prevailed over another, and we agreed to save the bathtub and mattress for after sushi and sake.
The next morning, we rose early after the kind of Stygian slumber that follows a full day of travel. If Michelin awarded stars for breakfast, Imperial Hotel, Kyoto would have three. We perused a tasting menu printed on washi paper as the aroma of frying fish wafted from the open kitchen. Soon came a tiered wooden bento box laden with Kyoto delicacies. On the top layer, fresh vegetables, pickles, and natto. Beneath, stewed tofu, fish roe, and hamo, Kyoto’s famous pike conger—a notoriously bony eel requiring extraordinary skill to prepare. Two varieties of green tea accompanied the meal, followed by a double shot of espresso as the waiter cleared the last dish. Never did a Heian lord in all his silk-swaddled splendor breakfast so opulently!
Nourished and caffeinated, we sallied forth into a golden summer morning to lose ourselves in one of the strangest, most beautiful cities in the world. An hour here in a tiny antique shop. A spell there in an art gallery. A detour to the Kuoe flagship to indulge my weakness for watches. After lunch, we stumbled upon a Lilliputian matcha shop and lingered over jade-green lattes and ice cream. Jackie asked whether we would visit Arashiyama to see the famous monkeys. “No monkeys this time, babe.” I raised an arm toward the ceiling and scratched my armpit. “But I’m close enough.”
We returned to Imperial Hotel Kyoto just before cocktail o’clock. The Old Imperial Bar, a dark-wood salon with expansive windows overlooking the city, boasted the most impressive collection of Japanese whisky I’d encountered outside M Whisky Library in Ginza. If you have a taste for rare whisky and more money than God, I recommend a pour of Wako Yamazakura American Style Whisky, a half-century-old treasure of which only 50 bottles were produced. At ¥100,000 a dram, I couldn’t bring myself to expense it to The Manual. Instead, Jackie and I each selected a Japanese gin and headed to the rooftop to sip martinis as the sun dipped behind the mountains.
The next day, we caught the Shinkansen to Tokyo and, shortly thereafter, our flight back to New York. Jackie and I agreed we’d have to visit Imperial Hotel, Osaka someday, the only property in the Imperial portfolio we had yet to patronize. On my second visit to Osaka, I intend to follow the same itinerary as in Kyoto: no itinerary at all.
