She serves salmon in the sacristy and cocktails in the cloister

Saint Bernard's beard - a cafe in a church, or a church cafe? Naught but a (rather gaudy) dream for Miss E (perhaps due to teenage whimsies of renovating a country church into a house, and too much time spent after midnight in dark dance halls), but here in the neon wilderness of Tokyo, there are several Ecclesiastical eateries around town. And so it was that one balmy evening, I pilgrimaged to Shibuya to the Christon Cafe with the beatific Miss B, the beneficient Miss Bennett and her sojourning saint of a mother, with the full intention of offering my prayers, wringing my rosary and bocking into some tasty tuck.

A winding staircase led one down into the darkened undercroft, and with a quick cross o'er our chests, bowed heads and a muttered prayer for mashed potatoes, we swung back the heavy wooden doors, and were astonished at the cavernous cathedral that opened up before us. To the right was an enormous stained glass window, depicting one of my fave saints, Saint Vitus (patron saint of the Charlston, the Black Bottom and the Shag, quite a liberal character for a church-going chap). In the centre of the ceiling was a pendulous, bejewelled orb, massive in size, glowing with many cameos of stained glass from which hung a chandelier, a neon pink cross suspended amid its guttering, electric candles. It was as if God had been careless packing away the Christmas decs and had overlooked a bauble (designed by L.C. Tiffany himself).

Running along one wall were private booths, curtained off dramatically in blood red, and opposite was an upper level decorated with a richly coloured painting of the Last Supper, and beneath it a long table upon which such a supper could be served. The lower level was stuffed higgledly-piggledly with relics from the Crusades and pale melancholic statues of holy countenances, and the congrega- ...er, the customers, were seated at polished wooden tables, or sat upon puffed-up, stately armchairs and chaise longues.

We were ushered over to the latter. I luxuriated in the breadth and depth of the sofa, and I happily patted its many plump cushions, and we all admired the coloured glass and the many statues of Mary and Our Lord, and the fierce gargoyles that frowned down at us from the ceiling. Usually I cringe at the thought of a theme cafe, but after reading rave reviews in fellow travellers' journals, I thought I'd see for myself and I must confess this cafe looked amazingly authentic (the terracotta floortiles being a slight flaw in the otherwise perfectly chosen decor). I learned that a few of the relics were bought from European churches that had closed their doors, and I was most disappointed not to come across the splinters of Christ's cross nor Joan of Arc's breasts, ala Blackadder.

We devoured such scrumptious offerings to make Friar Tuck salivate over his numerous chins, and I was rather partial to the Jekyll and Hyde cocktail, which was most generous with its lashings of amaretto. Delish!

Strangely, on visiting the convential conveniences, the beatific Miss B and I were horrified to discover a jarring decor choice - within the lavatorial lid, a pair of black, lacy women's underthings were encased, no doubt left behind by some tour group from Rome. Although, on reflection, perhaps it was a holy relic of Joan of Arc's after all - her holiness confirmed by her pair of Unmelting Knickers (with traces of ash).

Christon Cafe is a must-do visit and adds to the madness of a whirlwind trip to Tokyo. I plan to visit it for another sweet potion before attending local dark dance hall Walpurgis tomorrow evening, also in Shibuya.