Zena Woodley

Last spring, a hotel in Charleston, South Carolina, paid a Japanese woman a lot of money to teach their staff Japanese hospitality. That woman is my friend's mother, Mrs. Hanada. She has trained hotel staff in omotenashi for 31 years. She can tell how deep you bowed by looking at the back of your jacket. Omotenashi is the Japanese art of hospitality. You take care of a guest before they ask. Quietly. Perfectly. Invisibly. She went to Charleston for twelve weeks to teach it. She brought home a photocopy of something she says she was not supposed to see. The staff's guest notes. A three-ring binder behind the front desk, handwritten by everyone from the general manager to the bellman. In Japan, guest notes look like this: "Prefers firm pillow. Allergic to buckwheat." In Charleston, they look like this. "Room 412. Mr. and Mrs. Pinckney. 40th anniversary. She loves lilies. LAST YEAR HE FORGOT. Do not let him forget. (He has been told. He has been told twice.)" "Room 207. Honeymooners. Fighting already. Send up coconut cake. Cake has never failed us." "Room 501. Gentleman from New Jersey. He is in a hurry. Everyone walk slower. It's for his own good." "Room 105. Little boy, six, carrying his first fishing pole. Doormen: ask him what he caught. He caught nothing. Ask anyway. Make it sound like you heard it was a big one." "Room 220. Mr. Okafor. In town for his daughter's graduation from The Citadel. Say congratulations every time you see him. He will cry. Let him." "Room 318. In town for her mama's funeral. Front desk: do NOT ask how her stay is. Ask how she's holding up. Hug offered, never assumed." "Dining room, table 6, every Thursday since 1974: Mr. and Mrs. Gaillard. Mr. Gaillard passed in March. She still comes. We still set two glasses. She has not asked us to stop. We will not be the ones to stop." Mrs. Hanada read that one standing at the front desk. In 31 years, no hotel staff had ever seen her face slip. That afternoon, the whole front desk did. Then she turned the page. "Guest from Japan, here to teach us. She bows at us. Nobody knows what it means. Bow back anyway. Bow LOWER than her. Rhett, that is too low. Rhett, get up." She kept turning. "Week 1. Mrs. Hanada skips lunch. Kitchen, send a plate to the training room. Say it was extra. It was not extra." "Week 3. Mrs. H is homesick. Bernice says her mama in Japan is 88. Phone charger at the front desk is broken. Reggie, buy her a new one and say it was in lost and found." "Week 7. Her birthday is Thursday. She hasn't told a soul. Reggie found it on her paperwork. Asked Mrs. Gaillard. Mrs. Gaillard says she can have the second glass." On her birthday, Mrs. Hanada sat at table 6. Across from a 79-year-old widow. In Mr. Gaillard's chair. Her whole career, she has taught one rule above all others: staff never sit down with a guest. Mrs. Gaillard ordered for both of them, told her about every Thursday since 1974, and patted her hand over dessert like she'd known her for fifty years. The last entry is from her last day. "Mrs. Hanada leaves Friday. She taught us everything. Nobody tell her we've been doing it to her since the airport. She'll cry. One more bow. Lower than hers. Rhett, get up." She did cry. At the airport. In front of the entire front desk, who had come in uniform. Omotenashi means you care for a guest before they ask. She flew 7,000 miles to teach it. In Charleston, nobody had ever heard the word. They just call it being raised right. She taught them how to bow. They taught her how to sit down. (Back in Tokyo, she has added one new rule to her training: "If a guest is sad, send up cake." Japanese hotels do not keep cake on hand for this. She is working on it.)