Waitress: "Welcome! Can I get your drink orders started?" Person 1: "Draft beer." Person 2: "Draft beer." Person 3: "Draft beer." Person 4 (who desperately craves a sweet strawberry cocktail): "Draft beer." Westerners look at this and smile: "Wow, Japanese people really love beer!" No. Person 4 despises beer. Beer tastes like fermented dishwater to him. So why did he order it? Because if you say: "Excuse me, could I get a mango-peach sunrise with light ice?" the atmospheric pressure inside the room instantly plummets to zero. The waitress has to navigate to page 4 of the touchscreen terminal. That takes 6 seconds. And for those 6 seconds, every human at the table stares at you with pure, silent hatred: "You are delaying our collective toast for fruit syrup, you narcissistic sociopath." No Japanese soul can survive that gaze. So we choke down the bitter foam. And two hours later, the final test arrives: The Last Fried Chicken. There are 5 pieces for 4 people. Piece #5# sits on the cold ceramic plate. "Please, go ahead!" "No, no, you take it!" "I couldn't possibly, I am stuffed!" Nobody touches it. Why? Because the human who consumes the final piece of chicken is instantly categorized as a "Greedy Beast Incapable of Impulse Control." The chicken grows colder. It solidifies into a sacred temple relic. Everyone at the table would rather starve to death like a samurai than commit the social suicide of chewing that last nugget. In Japan, harmony is not achieved by being happy. It is achieved by suffering in absolute unison.