In Nagoya’s Chikusa Ward, my family and I weren’t looking for anything in particular—just a change of scenery, maybe a warm meal. We drifted down side streets until a small doorway caught our eye, the words “Bar Far East Antilles” scrawled on a curious sign. There was no line, no whispered secrets about reservations. We glanced at each other and laughed. “Let’s try it,” someone said, and we stepped through.
Inside was an unexpected world. Low lamps threw golden light over wood-panelled walls, and weathered ship’s wheels and ropes hinted at journeys far from Japan. The air was alive with soca—not the reggae we expected, but the buoyant rhythms of Trinidad and Tobago—bouncing softly through the speakers and weaving energy through the room. In those first moments it felt as if we had left Nagoya for someplace warm and windswept.
A man behind the counter greeted us with a smile that said we were welcome, even without a reservation. He seated us near the bar where we could watch him and his team move deliberately through their routines. There was no hurry. Plates emerged when ready, drinks arrived as if by instinct.
The menu promised dishes we knew only in passing. I ordered roti with vegetable curry. When it arrived, the aroma alone told a story—turmeric and cumin layered over garlic and ginger, bright and earthy at the same time. The roti was soft and stretchy, perfect for scooping up carrot, potato and chickpea simmered until tender. My wife chose curry chicken wrapped in roti, her dish deeper and richer. The meat fell apart under her fork, soaked in a sauce that slid from sweet to spicy to savoury in one smooth sequence. Across from us our daughter picked the same curry chicken but paired it with yellow rice. The rice was buttery and bright, soaking up the curry in a way that gentled the spices for her younger palate.
My mother‑in‑law opted for jerk chicken, and the smell alone made us sit up straighter. The skin was blackened and crisp, hiding meat that was juicy and peppery. Each bite delivered a rush of allspice, thyme and Scotch bonnet heat that lingered but never overwhelmed. The buttery yellow rice on her plate calmed the burn just enough to make her smile between mouthfuls.
While we ate, the music pulsed and the staff drifted by, topping up water, laughing softly in the kitchen. We had the sense of being in someone’s home rather than a formal dining room, of being cared for without fuss or ceremony. Between bites we took in the details: a map of the Antilles pinned to the wall, Japanese barware glinting in the half-light, and in one corner a projector looping old footage of Caribbean coastlines.
By the time our plates were empty, we realized we had been in the bar for hours. We finished our drinks and sat back, letting the soca rhythms and the hum of conversation wash over us. When we finally stood to leave, the chef thanked us warmly and we stepped back into the cool night, carrying with us the lingering warmth of spice and song.
Bar Far East Antilles isn’t simply a fusion restaurant. It’s a meeting of two worlds—the precision of Japanese hospitality and the free‑spirited heart of the Caribbean. Our spontaneous visit became a small adventure, the sort of memory you don’t plan but never forget: a door opening onto a world of roti, rice, jerk spices and soca, right here in Nagoya.
