My coworker Takahashi has eaten the same lunch every day for nineteen years. One salmon rice ball from the convenience store. Every day. Since 2007. I once asked him why. He said, "So I don't have to choose." Last month, he went on his first business trip to Tennessee. On the first day, his American coworkers took him to a sandwich shop for lunch. He stepped up to the counter. A young man in a visor looked at him with no expression whatsoever. "What kind of bread?" Takahashi did not know bread had kinds. The young man pointed. Italian. Wheat. Honey oat. Herbs and cheese. Flatbread. Takahashi studied them for a long time. Then he asked, very politely: "Which one is the most respectful?" "...What?" "Which bread will not offend anyone?" "It's bread, man." He chose wheat. It seemed humble. "Six-inch or footlong?" "Which is appropriate for a guest?" "...Footlong, I guess." "Toasted?" Takahashi hesitated. "If I say no... is it cold?" "It's whatever you want." Whatever you want. Nobody had ever said that to Takahashi. Not his teachers. Not his parents. Not his boss. Certainly not a sandwich. "Cheese?" American. Cheddar. Pepper jack. Swiss. Provolone. Takahashi was sweating now. He looked up and asked the young man, almost begging: "What do you recommend?" And the young man in the visor gave him the most American answer I have ever heard. "Bro. It's your sandwich." It's your sandwich. Takahashi told me those three words hit him like a train. Fifty-two years. He had never once owned a sandwich. Behind him, a line was forming. Six people. Takahashi felt the panic rise. In Japan, holding up a line is a crime against society. Then a big man in a camo hat leaned in. "First time, buddy?" Takahashi nodded. "Take your time. Nobody's ever been in a hurry for a sandwich." And then something happened that Takahashi still cannot explain. The line formed a committee. "Get the pepper jack." "No. Swiss. Trust me." "Honey mustard. You can't go wrong with honey mustard." "Don't you dare skip the pickles." "Leave him alone, Carl. Let the man decide." Six strangers. Arguing. For him. About his lunch. Like it mattered. The young man in the visor looked at the line. "Y'all done?" Takahashi got pepper jack, Swiss, honey mustard, extra pickles, and "everything" on it, because he could not bear to disappoint anyone. When he walked out with it, the whole line clapped. He told me later, very seriously: "In Japan, lunch is a decision someone made for you in 1987." "In Tennessee, they made me decide. And then six strangers helped me." "Freedom is terrifying for about eleven minutes. Then it's delicious." He came back to Tokyo last week. On Monday, I watched him stand in front of the rice balls at the convenience store for four full minutes. For the first time in nineteen years, he picked tuna. The clerk asked, "Is that everything?" Takahashi looked at her and said, completely serious: "It's my onigiri."