Service

There are many cliches about Japan and Japanese men and women, and most of them are true.

They do, indeed, love sushi. They eat buckets of the stuff. They adore Karaoke - most of them (although a few sigh, but participate anyway) - and the girls wear little fluffy things in their hair for no apparent reason. Hello Kitty is, truly, the nation's darling, and men do, actually, carry handbags. They drink sake, get drunk pretty quickly, go pink in the face, and then dance to Michael Jackson songs, even though they have no idea at all what he's singing about. They do slurp their noodles, they do eat with chopsticks, and they do pray before eating. All of this, true. True, true, true. Just as the Brits do, in fact, eat fish and chips, drink beer and fall over and hit each other for fun. True, true, true.

The biggest cliche of all, of course, is that Japan has the best Customer Service in the world. And let me clarify this, once and for all: this outlandish statement - this giant of declarations - is absolutely bang on the money. And while it might not seem quite as exciting as fluffy hair things and tiny, creepy cartoon cats, it's the thing that continues to shock long after you've attached something sparkly to your own mobile phone and pledged allegiance to the giant Kitty herself.

Excellent Customer Service is everywhere in Japan: in every single thing you do, every single day. It's Customer Service that would make John Lewis managers weep into their little buttoned shirt sleeves.

In supermarkets, the men behind the fish counter sing - literally sing - 'irrasssshiimmaaassseee' (welcome!) every thirty seconds, just for the pleasure of the people shopping. In restaurants, there are little buttons to press when you want to order something, and when you press it they turn up immediately. Not twenty minutes later, when you've screeched 'hello? helllooo?' fifteen times. Not huffing and puffing and declaring 'what?' as soon as they get to the table. Immediately. In convenience stores, the people packing the shelves will get up straight away and race to the till so that you don't have to queue, while apologising profusely that you had to even look at somebody being served before you were. In doctor's surgeries, the secretaries beaver away, sorting out your files, and there isn't so much as a whiff of 'yeah? Well we're all pretty sick round here, lady. You'll just have to wait your turn and die quietly on that seat over there.'

And it never, ever fails to astound me. After all, I'm British. If the waitress even notices I'm there in England, I'm grateful and thankful enough to leave her an overwhelming tip.

Yesterday, I went to a large shop to find a Yukata (a traditional cotton kimono for summer events), only to find that - because summer is drawing to a close - all the Yukatas have been put in storage.

'Do you have any Yukatas?' I asked the woman behind the desk.
Dunno, the English shop girl would have said. Maybe. It's not summer anymore, though, is it. So probably not. Stand there for twenty minutes and then I'll put my magazine down and pretend to look.
'Just a minute,' the Japanese girl said, and got her microphone out. 'We need some help here! Quickly!'
And out of the back ran - and I mean ran, at full pelt - another lady in an immaculate suit and high heels.
'What is it? Welcome! How can I help?!' she gasped.
'Umm, I'm looking for a Yukata.'
Oh not another bloody person looking for a Yukata, the English girl in my head moaned. It's not bloody summer anymore, is it. 
I know, I told her: it's not summer anymore, Tracy.
Nah, we got no Yukatas here, lady.
'Yukatas!' the lady cried. 'Wait!' And then she legged it at full speed back across the huge shop floor, bowed at me as she exited the room backwards (it's rude to show their backs when exiting a room), and came back with three other small and perfectly dressed ladies, and three huge racks of Yukatas: pushing them with all their strength (they were much bigger than they were).
They all then bowed at me.
Now what do you effin' want, you pain in the arse? 
'Can we help you in any way? At all?'
'I'll just have a look,' I said, and perused my way through them. Eventually, unable to make up my mind, I told them I would come back tomorrow.
You have got to be friggin' kidding me. I just went and got them all the way out of storage. Now I've got to put them all the way back again? I just stopped texting my boyfriend for this. Why don't you drop down dead, you indecisive son of a bitch.
My Japanese ladies looked delighted.
'Tomorrow! You'll come back tomorrow! Thank you so much!'
And then they pushed the Yukatas back out of the room, bowing as they went.

The moment, however, when I knew that Customer Service in England would never have a hope of holding its head up against Japan was last night, in MacDonalds.

In Japanese MacDonalds, the burgers look like they say they're going to look on the posters. The chips are hot. The men and women are polite, un-spotty, busy: concentrating on your order, instead of their  (dirty) finger nails. Everything is spotless. When you order a 'drive through', a little lady in a beautiful suit and hat will run out, hand you your brown paper bag and bow as you drive away.

None of which, however, prepared me for this.

'Oh!' the lady exclaimed as I walked in. 'The ketchup!'
I blushed.
'The ketchup! I forgot last time to give you the ketchup!'
I nodded. She had, indeed, forgotten to give me ketchup.
'I'm so sorry. So sorry.' She put her hands together and bowed. Then she bowed again. 'So sorry!' She bowed again.
'It's okay. Honestly. I survived.'
'I'll give you two this time! Three!'
She started piling ketchups in a bag.
'Honestly, it's alright.'
She bowed again.
'My apologies.'
I put my hand out and smiled as widely as I could.
'Please. It's alright. It's just ketchup.'
And then - giddy with relief - she rushed off to sort me out my perfectly fresh and prompt hamburger.

Japanese Customer Service is nothing like Customer Service anywhere I've ever been in the world. And it never fails to humble me.

Especially because when I walked away with my Big Mac and my ketchup, all I could hear in my head was: Ketchup? You want friggin' Ketchup? 


You're lucky I even remembered the burger, mate.