Japan is known to have some of the best hospitality in the world. In Japanese, it’s called omotenashi, and people so naturally weave it into their behaviors that it can often go unnoticed. You might not be aware of exactly when, or what it was about the interaction, but you are left with a feeling of ease. Everything was just…smooth. But that is, in fact, the result of somebody’s masterful omotenashi skills at work.
It could have been the way the waiter at the cafe quietly filled up your empty glass before the thirst even hit you. And when it did, you didn’t even have to ask — the water was already right there waiting for you. Or, it could have been the way you left your heavy bags at the hotel before checking in, and they were already carried up to your room and placed in a perfect line by the door when you entered. Or, it could have been the way the staff of a beautiful 100-year-old ryokan in Aichi Prefecture surprised you and your mom with a housemade birthday cake. For the last example, you might have thought it oddly specific, and indeed, it is because that really happened.
You can read the first part of my miniseries about my recent stay at Kakujoro, of which this is its humble continuation. I wish for this short piece to capture probably the greatest highlight of my two-night stay with my mom on our birthday weekend (yes, our birthdays are just one day apart).
I had just returned to my room ahead of my mom, who was taking her well-deserved sweet time in the onsen, when the doorbell rang, clear yet soft. I opened the door to one of the lovely staff members, whose smile seemed to brighten the night just a little. She was carrying a small plate upon which lay a round cake smothered with whipped cream, with a few already-lit candles. She seemed well prepared to start singing happy birthday when she noticed my mom was not in the room. Returning her smile with the brightest one that naturally came over me, I expressed my utter surprise and joy, explaining that my mom was still at the onsen.
She apologized (unnecessarily, of course) for coming too early, to which I expressed how much this meant to me, especially now that I got to surprise my mom. I gently received the cake, along with the matches, and meandered my way to the fridge. At this point, I wouldn’t have been surprised if the staff had made sure the cake was the right size, but of course, the cake fit perfectly on one of the fridge’s shelves.
I welcomed my mom home, carrying that happy glow that comes after soaking away all your worries and fatigue in the magic of Japan’s onsen. I swiftly asked her to take a seat on the couch and close her eyes. I retrieved the cake from the fridge and relit the candles, which flickered with energy and seemed ready to join in on the happy birthday song at last.
As anyone who stays in a room that is not their own might be able to visualize, I skipped around — at times, very awkwardly — clicking on any switch on the walls I could find, hoping the lights would all turn off. There must have been two occasions in about a 45-second span where I somehow clicked a button that turned on a new light in the room that I didn’t even know existed. All while my mom kept her eyes closed, both of us giggling — her having no idea what I was up to, and me knowing exactly what I wanted to do, although struggling to know how.
I finally managed to turn off all the lights, letting the soft whispers of fire from the candles light up the room. My mother opened her eyes, surprised, and it was her inner child who smiled. We both sang happy birthday to each other and savored this moment of real tenderness that the staff here had made possible.
Cutting into the cake revealed jewels of carefully sliced fresh fruit that balanced out the sweetness of the whipped cream beautifully, with the soft sponge adding volume yet somehow still keeping it all light.
My mom and I both knew that there was something about this cake. It held so much personality in its shape, in its layers, in the combination of fruits inside — it felt real. And the next day, the staff kindly confirmed that indeed, it was housemade.
While hospitality is indeed everywhere in Japan, it is rare to find something that feels like such a big, warm hug. A lot of the time, omotenashi goes unnoticed, but when it is seen, it can feel incredibly polished, which makes things run smoothly, of course, but it can also feel like there is a distance — rehearsed and rigid according to the roles of the serving and the served.
Whereas this entire interaction — from the staff bringing the cake at the “wrong” time (which, of course, ended up being the perfect one), all the way to me hopping around the room trying to turn off the lights and giggling with my mom, to tasting the love that I could feel with every bite of that cake — felt like omotenashi that is truly, truly unforgettable.
Because it was beautifully human.
