After donating another couple hours to my time studying kanji last night, I could not take any more. My solution?.. a dose of fiction. Books closed, lights off, my choice was far from difficult. Perusing several videos on my hard drive, I already knew what my selection would be having been locked away from American film for over a month. I wanted real acting, craved depth in plot, needed to satisfy the shaky fingers indicating withdrawal from works of art worth watching. The definition of pulp fades in and out on the screen. A young(er) Tim Roth sits across Amanda Plumber enjoying breakfast at a roadside diner and discussing their previous financial endeavors. Decision made, they pull their guns out and the frame freezes in place. The music came first, a deep base line struck fast before the guitar and trumpet build to match the tempo. A Band Apart’s logo burns in and out, yellow on the black background; the silhouettes of four reservoir dogs easily recognizable before the director’s name makes a brief appearance. As the volume increases so does rise the title of this iconic work of ’94, Pulp Fiction.
As you can see, I am quite a fan of Quentin Tarantino’s films, but in this most recent viewing of Pulp Fiction, one scene especially resonated with me. The two hitmen driving along converse about John Travolta’s character’s recent three year foray into Europe and the surrounding area. In an effort to describe the land, he claims the other side of the Atlantic is not so glaringly different from America, rather it was the small differences that made it all sink in. His primary example, the Royal with Cheese, reminded me of all the McDonalds’ and Burger Kings I walk by on a regular basis on these eastern streets. Instead of the typical Big Mac so aggressively touted on television in the States, what has been cropping up during commercial breaks and on advertisement posters has been the tamago Mac. Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese… the works immortalized in song are accompanied by an ingredient not so familiar to American burgers. The flat disc of an egg is not a bastardization of real American food but a strange twist that causes, at the very least, a swift double take to make sure that the golden arches are still the company that has been flooding the American fast food market since the beginning of time.
The addition is such a minute change, but the inequalities fail to stop there. Without a doubt, there is a typical psychological response to the idea of dining in at one of these burger establishments in the states. Employees there purely for the paycheck, counters and tables streaked by the hasty wipes of a moderately clean rag and industrial strength cleaner, long neglected corner covered in a shadowy silk of grime years in the making. The restaurants themselves are merely the medium through which a three dollar meal can be purchased and ingested hastily before shuffling out the door to greener pastures. The lack of tlc given to these so called quality franchises is so evident that I personally would remain moderately unsurprised if under almost every roof, offenses against health and safety codes could be found biding their time until they become realized in stomach pains or worse. Erected contrary to these expected malpractices are the manifestations of fast food here, in Tokyo.
More than the general shining cleanliness of the, get ready, Makudonarudo found here, there is a sense that the employees take their profession seriously. The smile found with the service here, while most likely mandatory in the job description, does not conjure feelings of pulled teeth or a weary spirit. Makku, for short, is not a sore spot in the topic of employment that it so often seems to be in the West. While there remains a definite impersonality in the service, what can be expected of a place where food is premade and sits under a warmer for even hours at a time after all, there is a tangible sense of pride in a job well done. Perhaps it is merely my foreign mind playing tricks on me as it is wont to do, but the noticeable resignation of a worker to a job he obviously does not want is not so evident in Japan.
Then again, after talking with a couple friends about the notion of working a fast food joint, it becomes quite clear that the sunny disposition that greets each customer truly is a farce. Managers will chastise employees without a second thought if the drone is not happy enough. In Japan, appearances are everything. The façade that is dutifully maintained in every major business gives customers a sense of peace, and while it would be wrong to say exemplary treatment pads their ego, were a shop to refrain from pandering to such high Japanese expectations, the cheeky tumbleweed would roll between the aisles. The struggle to keep up the image does not halt at mere visual cues. Language itself transforms into a whole new beast with just about every bit of vocabulary being exchanged for more polite speaking. American establishments make this upward shift as well, which is why the stark change in intonation and pacing becomes undoubtedly audible each time my foot touches the tiled floor inside Tokyo’s fast food purveyors.
The only way I can think to translate this experience is through a handshake. We have all had to make those exchanges of congratulations or agreement be them work related or between friends. A good handshake is firm, both people stand with great posture and look each other dead in the eye before two, maybe three, curt up and down shakes. Bad handshakes occur when one’s partner fails to reciprocate with strength and instead presents a dead fish to flop along reminding you that maybe your partner just is not as dedicated or well meaning as you. In Tokyo, you are served, looked in the eye, and taken care of. In America, you are a wallet waiting to be emptied. Regardless of if one of the uniformed people behind the counter actually cares about you, they care enough about their job to do it right, and that I feel, is just a little different.
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