Bowen Smith

In Georgia I entered a Chick-fil-A drive-thru line of forty cars. I turned off my engine. I prepared to wait the way my ancestors waited out a siege. Six minutes later I was holding chicken. I do not know what happened to the other thirty-nine cars. The line moved like water that had somewhere to be. A young woman walked between the cars taking orders on a small tablet, on foot, in the sun, smiling like the sun was her idea. I said thank you. She said, "My pleasure." I did not think about it then. I should have. At the window I thanked the young man for the food. "My pleasure." I thanked him for the sauce. "My pleasure." I thanked him for thanking me— "My pleasure." I want to be clear about what was happening. This was a duel. In Japan I trained in courtesy for forty years. Bowing angles. Seasonal greetings. The correct depth of apology for seventeen distinct situations. I was a white belt in that drive-thru. I escalated. I used my most formal English. I thanked him on behalf of my entire family line. He said, "My pleasure," and gave me extra sauce. Extra sauce. Unprovoked. A counterattack. I returned the next day to reclaim my honor. It was Sunday. The restaurant was closed. All of them were closed. In the entire country. They close every Sunday, and they have closed every Sunday since the beginning, because the founder made a promise, and the promise did not expire when he did. I stood in the empty parking lot and understood I had lost twice. Once to a teenager with sauce. Once to a man I will never meet, who kept his word so long it became a building. In my country we say a samurai's word is his life. I had never seen a restaurant say it back. I returned Monday. I ordered. And this time I said it first, before she could. "My pleasure." She smiled and said, "It sure is." America, I surrender. It was my pleasure.

USA. A Mexican restaurant. We had not yet ordered anything, and the food was already arriving. Chips. Salsa. Unrequested. Free. I stopped the waiter. "We have not earned these." "They just come with the table, man." They come with the TABLE. In my land, hospitality is a debt. Every gift creates an obligation, weighed carefully, returned in the proper season with interest of feeling. Here, the gift arrives before you have even proven you can pay for dinner. This is not an appetizer. This is a declaration: we trust you. Eat. I ate with the gravity the moment deserved. And then — I must report this calmly — the basket emptied, and a new one appeared. "Did we…?" "Refill," the waiter said. "It's bottomless." Bottomless. They have wells of salsa. The supply lines of this nation are beyond anything my ancestors imagined. My friend warned me. "Don't fill up on chips, dude." Too late. I had accepted three baskets. Honor demanded each one be finished — an unfinished gift is an insult. By the time my actual food arrived, I was a ruined man. I was not hungry. I was not comfortable. I had been defeated by a courtesy. Generosity that arrives before the request cannot be repaid. It can only be survived. I know the rule now. I have made my peace with the basket. One basket. Two at the most. Who am I deceiving. There is no number of baskets I would refuse. The trust of a nation is in that salsa, and I intend to honor all of it.