Women in uniform greet patrons from behind a reception desk while others rush back and forth with drinks. Men in waistcoats talk frantically into their lapel microphones, ensuring their guests have everything they need.
Is it a smart restaurant? No. Espace Tower, a stone’s throw from Shinjuku’s notorious red-light district, satisfies a much more urgent need among Tokyoites than a mere meal. This is where thousands come every day to play pachinko, the national obsession of the working Japanese man and woman.
The scene inside — rows of punters sitting transfixed before the noisy, brightly lit machines, is repeated at thousands of pachinko parlours up and down the country. Millions of players, from salarymen to housewives, endure the ear-splitting din of the machines and the clouds of cigarette smoke for the chance of turning a few thousand yen into a small fortune in the space of an afternoon.
Pachinko halls are as common a sight in Japanese towns as karaoke joints and noodle stalls. At the last count, there were close to 18 000 of them with more than four million machines.
Pachinko has proved resilient to hard times. ”I think it is going to continue on an upward trend,” said Takashi Kadokura, an economist at the Dai-ichi Life Research Institute in Tokyo. ”Many parlours have attracted a new generation of female players by organising creches, specially reserved seats for women and ladies’ days.”
The pachinko industry is worth an eye-watering 29-trillion yen (about $258-billion) — more than Japan’s top five carmakers combined. Last year it grew by more than 5%. The country’s 21-million enthusiasts played an average of 25 times last year, spending more than Â¥100 000 (about $893) each, according to government figures.
Pachinko is derived from Corinthian, a pinball-style game brought to Japan from the United States (where it never caught on) in the 1920s. In the modern game, all players have to do is adjust the speed at which steel balls are propelled to the top of the machine. If the speed is spot on, the balls fall through a series of metal pins into a winning pocket, releasing more balls that can be played again or exchanged for gifts.
This is where the game’s relationship with the law becomes ambiguous, because Japan’s strict gambling laws mean players cannot exchange balls for cash on the premises.
Instead they are offered gifts such as handbags, chocolates, cigarettes, TVs and DVD players. But most winners select ”special” gifts, often tablets containing tiny ingots of ”gold”. Once outside, they take the tablets to a booth — often nothing more than a hole in the wall — and exchange them for cash.
These furtive transactions make the industry a target for organised crime. Many of the exchange booths are controlled by the yakuza, who take a cut of the winnings.
It is estimated that 10% of pachinko profits find their way into the pockets of gangsters.
Despite growing concerns about addiction, particularly among young women, for the vast majority of players pachinko is an enjoyable distraction, no more harmful than an occasional flutter on the horses.
For Seiji Goto, however, it is a serious business. The Osaka native prepares for a day at a pachinko parlour with the same meticulous attention to detail of a spy on a mission. When he plays pachinko, he does so not for fun, but for sums of money most of his fellow players can only dream about.
That is because he cheats. Unbeknown to his fellow players and the parlour managers, concealed beneath his clothes is a sophisticated — and illegal — box of tricks that can earn him Â¥100 000 in a single day.
He uses a signal emitted by a battery-powered antenna to propel the steel balls at exactly the speed required to send them tumbling through the pins and into a winning hole. Then it is simply a matter of sitting back and watching the ball-count rise.
Goto (not his real name) began playing pachinko in his late teens. Now 32, he is a senior member of a group whose members travel the country milking pachinko machines dry.
Though his face is well known at many pachinko parlours in Osaka, he asks not to be described in print, fearing it could jeopardise his livelihood.
”Many of the pachinko parlours are on to people like us,” he said as we sipped iced coffee in the lounge of an Osaka hotel.
”They keep a special eye out for people who seem to be doing too well, and some have installed transparent covers that block the signal from the antenna.”
Without his technological crutch, for which he pays the maker ¥30 000 a day, he is not, he admits, a particularly good player.
But in a good month, Goto takes home between ¥3-million and ¥4-million. Over a year, he can earn as much as ¥24-million ($211 000) after he has paid a sum to his boss, who, in turn, gives his yakuza associates a cut in exchange for protection and negotiating with complicit pachinko operators.
”It’s a comfortable way of life and an easy way to make money. I can’t seem to leave it alone.”
Their methods may differ, but millions of other Japanese know exactly what he means. – Guardian Unlimited Â