I have a confession to make. I have been coming to AZ for a while now, long enough that the walk up to the second floor feels like coming home, long enough that I know where I like to sit and how I like my evenings to unfold. And yet, every single time, I still cannot decide what to order.

It is not that I do not know what I like. I do, more or less. It is that there are always too many things I like, and on any given night I seem to want all of them and none of them at once. Over time, this indecision has turned into a small ritual of its own, one I have come to enjoy almost as much as the shisha itself.

So this is a little story about that ritual. About standing at the edge of a choice, being gently helped across it, and the slow, easy night that follows once the hookah finally arrives. If you have ever stared at a menu for far too long, I think you will understand.

The Walk There

My indecision usually starts before I even arrive. Somewhere on the way through the streets of Hachinohe, I begin running through the possibilities in my head. Something fresh tonight? Something sweet? Something that tastes like the end of summer, or something that feels like a warm room in winter?

By the time I reach the building, I have usually changed my mind three or four times. I have learned not to fight this. It is part of how I shift gears at the end of a day. Thinking about flavors is a pleasant way to stop thinking about everything else, the emails, the errands, the small worries that follow you out of the office and down the street.

There is something reassuring about knowing that AZ will be open no matter what time I decide to go. From 20:00 until 5:00 the next morning, every day of the year, Hachinohe's first shisha bar keeps its door open. That means my indecision never has a deadline. I can wander, I can stop for dinner, I can take the long way around. The choice will still be waiting for me when I get there.

Settling Into My Seat

When I walk in, the first thing I notice is the change in pace. The street outside has its own energy, but inside AZ the air feels calmer. Music plays softly in the background, not loud enough to demand attention, just enough to give the room a gentle mood. The lighting is low and easy on the eyes.

I usually head for the counter if there is space. It has become my spot, partly out of habit and partly because it is the best place for someone like me, someone who will inevitably need a little help making up their mind. From the counter, I can talk to the staff without raising my voice, and I can watch the quiet work of the evening going on around me.

I take off my jacket, settle onto the seat, and let my shoulders drop. This moment, just before the decision has to be made, is one of my favorite parts of the night. Nothing has been chosen yet. Everything is still possible. It is a small, pleasant kind of suspense.

Staring at the Menu

Then comes the menu. I look at it as though I have never seen it before, even though I have read it many times. My eyes drift from one section to another. Fruity flavors, cool and minty ones, sweeter ones, and others that are harder to describe. I recognize some names. Others I have tried once and half forgotten.

This is usually where the real hesitation begins. I find myself making little arguments in my head. The fruity one would be refreshing, but I had something similar last time. The minty one would wake me up, but maybe I want to wind down instead. The sweet one sounds comforting, but is it too much for tonight?

I have accepted that I am not going to win these arguments on my own. Some people walk into a shisha bar knowing exactly what they want. They order without looking and settle in. I admire them, but I am not one of them. For me, the menu is less a list of options and more the beginning of a conversation.

Asking for Help

Eventually, I look up and admit defeat. "I can't decide again," I say, and by now that sentence has become a kind of greeting.

What I love about AZ is that nobody ever seems to mind. The staff do not hurry me or push me toward anything in particular. Instead, they ask a few simple questions. What kind of mood am I in? Do I want something light or something richer? Am I in the mood for something familiar, or would I like to try something new?

These questions are easy to answer, even when choosing a flavor is not. I might say I have had a long day and want something calming. I might say I want something bright and clean. Sometimes I just say I want to be surprised. And from those small hints, a suggestion starts to take shape.

There is real comfort in this. It means I never need to know the technical details or the names of things. I only need to know, roughly, how I feel. The staff take it from there, and more often than not, what they suggest turns out to be exactly what I did not know I wanted.

The Moment of Choosing

There is always a short pause after the suggestion, a moment where I weigh it up one last time. Sometimes I agree right away. Sometimes I ask about a second option, just to be sure. Once or twice I have changed my mind halfway through ordering, and even then nobody seemed to mind.

But eventually, the decision is made. And the strange thing is how good that feels. All the back and forth, all the little arguments on the walk over, simply melt away. The choice is out of my hands now. There is nothing left to do but wait and enjoy.

I think this is part of why the ritual matters to me. In daily life, so many decisions feel heavy. They have consequences and deadlines and people depending on them. Choosing a hookah flavor is one of the few decisions I make that carries no weight at all. If it is not perfect, there is always next time. That freedom makes the moment of choosing feel light, even playful.

Waiting for the Hookah

After I order, there is a gentle wait while the hookah is prepared. I have come to appreciate this part too. It is a buffer between the choosing and the enjoying, a chance to let the evening settle.

I usually order a drink and sip it slowly. Sometimes I scroll through my phone, but more often I put it away and just look around. I notice the other guests, some deep in conversation, others sitting quietly on their own. I listen to the low hum of the music and the soft sounds of the room.

Preparing a hookah properly takes care, and I like knowing that someone is putting that care into mine. The bowl, the charcoal, the setup, all of it shapes how the smoke will taste. By the time it arrives at my seat, I am relaxed and ready, the day's tension already starting to fade.

The First Puff

When the hookah is set down in front of me, I take a moment before the first puff. It feels like opening a letter. I know roughly what to expect, but I am never quite sure until I try it.

That first draw is always slow and careful. I let the smoke fill my mouth, taste it, and breathe it out in a long, lazy stream. Sometimes the flavor is exactly what I imagined. Sometimes it is a little different, softer or brighter or more interesting than I expected. Either way, it is usually the moment I stop thinking about whether I chose the right one.

Over the next few minutes, the flavor tends to open up as the bowl settles. I find my rhythm, a puff, a pause, a sip of my drink, another puff. The indecision of the past half hour feels far away now. I am simply here, enjoying what is in front of me.

How the Night Unfolds

Once the hookah is going, the evening finds its own shape. On some nights I chat with the staff, talking about nothing in particular. On others, I sit quietly and let my thoughts drift along with the smoke. Sometimes a friend joins me and we talk for hours. Sometimes I just enjoy being alone in a room full of quiet company.

A session at AZ is never rushed. A single hookah lasts a good while, and there is no pressure to hurry through it. Because Hachinohe's first shisha bar stays open until 5:00, I never feel like I am watching the clock. The night stretches out comfortably in front of me.

I always keep a glass of water nearby and take breaks between puffs. I make sure I have eaten before I arrive, too, because smoking on an empty stomach never feels good. These small habits make the whole evening more comfortable, and they let me enjoy the slow pace without feeling worn out.

When the Indecision Comes Back

Every now and then, toward the end of a session, I start to wonder whether I should try something else. The thought creeps in quietly. Maybe the flavor I almost chose earlier would be nice now. Maybe I should finally try the one I have been curious about for weeks.

And just like that, the indecision returns. Sometimes I give in and ask about a second hookah, and the whole small ritual begins again, a little lighter this time. Other nights I decide that one was enough and let the thought go, saving it for my next visit.

I have come to see this as a good sign. It means I am leaving with something to look forward to. The flavors I did not choose tonight are not missed chances. They are simply waiting for another evening, another walk through Hachinohe, another moment of not being able to decide.

What I Have Learned From Not Deciding

After all these visits, I have realized something. My indecision is not really a problem to be solved. It is part of the pleasure.

Being unable to decide means I am curious. It means I still find the experience interesting, even after many nights in the same seat. And being able to say "I can't decide" without embarrassment, knowing that someone will help me find my way, makes AZ feel welcoming in a quiet, genuine way.

I have also learned that there is rarely a wrong choice. Each flavor offers its own small evening, its own mood. Some nights are bright and lively, others are calm and slow. When I let go of finding the perfect option, I start to enjoy whatever I end up with.

And perhaps most of all, I have learned that it is fine to ask for help. Whether you are new to shisha or have been coming for years, there is no need to pretend you know exactly what you want.

An Invitation

If you have never visited AZ, or if you have been meaning to come back, I hope you will. You do not need to know what to order. You do not need to have a plan for the evening. You only need to walk up, find a seat, and let the night take its own shape.

Hachinohe's first shisha bar is open from 20:00 until 5:00, every day of the year, so there is always time to stop by. Shisha and alcohol are for those aged 20 and over, so please keep that in mind before you visit.

And if you find yourself staring at the menu, unable to choose, just say so. I can promise you will not be the first. Perhaps I will be sitting at the counter that night, struggling with the very same decision.