Reiko, the owner, flitted about in a leopard-print mini-dress and pink tights, greeting guests with hugs and gossip. To be accepted into this clique, one must befriend Reiko. Her approval, it turns out, is granted if she shows you her Polaroids or, better yet, takes one of you.
Mark Dytham, a British architect who is an owner of a gallery-cum-nightclub, Super Deluxe, took me there. The secrecy cultivated by a bar, he explained, serves the same weeding-out function as a velvet rope, but in a Japanese way.
"If you are intruding on a close-knit scene, the proprietor will ignore you and maybe overcharge you," Dytham said. "You won't be asked to leave, but you will want to leave."
We stayed several hours, until Reiko came by with her camera.
Hidden bars have become so pervasive that like all trends, they are beginning to seep into the mainstream. Le Baron, a branch of the celebrity-packed Parisian club, opened near Omotesando Street last December. Marc Newson, the product and furniture designer, is an owner.
It is not easy to find. After wandering down narrow lanes and dead-ending at darkened storefronts, we finally spotted a single neon pink "B" next to an empty parking lot. The doorman nonchalantly directed us to the basement, which looked like a sex club in a Hong Kong action film, with pin-size red lights and sealed Plexiglas stripper booths.
There were model types from Paris grooving on the elevator-size dance floor, a filmmaker from New York, a couple of graphic designers from Seoul and a Mexican fashion designer enthroned on a chocolate leather club sofa who called himself Jesus. Apparently, they were all in on the secret.
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