In Japan, the highest compliment a man can give is "not bad." My coworker Saito's father has said it exactly three times. At Saito's wedding. When Saito's son was born. And once, about a very good eel. Last year, our company sent Saito to our office in Charlotte, North Carolina, for six months. On his first morning, a woman in accounting named Brenda picked up a stapler and said, "Oh my gosh. This is the best stapler ever." Saito is an engineer. He needed to know which stapler. So he started a spreadsheet. Four columns: Date. Thing. Who said it. Actual quality, 1 to 5. He showed it to me when he came home. Some rows: Day 3. The weather. "Isn't this the best day?" It was 58 and cloudy. Actual quality: 2. Day 9. Saito's tie. "Best tie in the building." Saito owns five identical navy ties. He was wearing the same one as Day 4. Day 22. Gas station sweet tea. "Best sweet tea in the state." He heard this at four more gas stations. North Carolina has at least five bests. Actual quality: 5, 5, 5, 5, 5. He has no explanation. Day 41. A four-year-old's drawing of a horse. Her grandfather held it up in the church parking lot. "That is the best horse I have ever seen." It was a potato with legs. Actual quality: he could not bring himself to type a number. Day 63. Saito's English. "Dude. Your English is the best." For twenty years in Japan, Saito's English has been described as "a good effort." He went to the restroom for a while. Day 97. A Little League team lost 14 to 2. The coach gathered them up. "Best game you boys ever played." Saito checked the stats. It was not. Every boy walked off that field taller anyway. Somewhere around Day 120, Saito stopped filling in the last column. I asked him why. "At first, I thought they were exaggerating," he said. "They are not exaggerating. They are deciding." "In Japan, we save 'the best' for once in a lifetime. Americans spend it every day. And somehow, they never run out." On his last day, the office had a cake. Brenda stood up and said, "Y'all, this is the best guy we ever had." Saito typed it in. Row 1,214. He left the last column empty. Last Tuesday, at lunch in Tokyo, our section chief asked Saito how his convenience-store sandwich was. "Best sandwich ever," Saito said. The section chief looked at the sandwich. Then at Saito. Then he went downstairs and bought two. And on Sunday, Saito's father ate his mother's curry, put down his spoon, and said: "Not bad." Then, after a long pause: "...Maybe the best." His mother made him say it again. Twice.