I bought a sandwich, a banana and a tin of coffee. This is not a complicated transaction. This is a transaction so simple that, in any other country, it would happen wordlessly while both parties stared into the middle distance.

In Japan, this transaction took seventy-one seconds.

The cashier — bless him, he was doing his job — asked me, in sequence:

  1. Did I have a point card?
  2. Did I want my receipt?
  3. Would I like a bag?
  4. If yes, would I like the bag to be heated for the coffee?
  5. Should the cold sandwich be in its own separate bag?
  6. Should the banana, which is room temperature, go with the cold sandwich or the hot coffee?
  7. Did I want chopsticks?
  8. Did I want a small wet napkin?
  9. Would I like the receipt placed inside the bag or handed to me separately?

By question six I had begun to dissociate. By question eight I was no longer in the convenience store. I was floating above it, watching a tired man in a uniform ask another tired man in a coat whether his banana had a temperature preference.

The problem isn't the questions. It's the system.

Every single one of those questions is, individually, a sign of a thoughtful and considerate service culture. I am not, despite the title of this piece, against thoughtful and considerate service. I am against being held hostage by it.

There is no opt-out. There is no "just give me the things and the bag." The script must be performed. The customer must be served fully. To wave a hand and skip a step would be to disrespect the entire ¥850-an-hour ritual being conducted on your behalf.

So you stand there. You nod through the questions. And somewhere, in a glass tower in Shinjuku, an executive is reading a satisfaction report and concluding that what the customer really wants is a tenth question.