Japan wasn't sure what to expect when America told him he had to come to dinner with him. He had assured him numerous times that they would be going to a Japanese restaurant. Japan had heard enough horror stories from China about what America did to his country's cooking to be wary of anything America claimed was Japanese. He would have shot him down altogether if America hadn't anticipated the impending rejection and started working the 'I'm young and eager to please and here, see how cute I am?' pout that he always used to win any argument.
And that was how he found himself in his current situation: sitting at a teppanyaki table in a restaurant called Shogun.
"So, isn't this cool? It's all authentic Japanese in here. Ah man, I'm so excited! Hibachi steak is just the best, isn't it?" Japan looked at America, who was watching him expectantly. Ah. He was waiting for an answer. He looked again at the teppanyaki table they were seated around. Did he just call this hibachi? He looked back at America and nodded slightly. He supposed this was a satisfactory answer because America beamed then looked at his menu again.
Japan took a moment to look at the décor. The room was dimly lit, and while the décor was somewhat tasteful, it wasn't particularly Japanese. The golden dragon décor over the fire place in the center of the room was more Chinese-looking. There was a small zen rock garden in the corner of the room. While it was nice, it was woefully out of place in the restaurant. This was especially true, Japan thought, when there was a young child sitting in it as though it were a sandbox while her parents ate nearby. There was quiet, gentle shamisen music playing in the background, which might added to the atmosphere if he could actually hear it. It was very loud here. There was a loud cheer from a table across the room, but he couldn't see what they were so excited about.
"Hey! Hey!" America nudged his arm and he looked over to see the waitress waiting. He did a double take, realizing she was not Japanese, but brushed it off quickly. After all, there was no rule that said only Japanese people could work at a Japanese restaurant.
"I'll have a bottle of cold." The waitress and America blinked as they looked at him. Realization soon dawned on America's face.
"Oh! A cold one!" He looked at the waitress and grinned. "Don't mind my friend. He's from Japan, too! Give him, uh, what's a Japanese beer?" He glanced at the menu. "Sapporo is Japanese right? Give him that." Japan frowned more as the waitress nodded and walked away. America blinked a few times. "What? Did you want Kirin instead?"
Japan sighed and tried to think of a diplomatic way to word everything he wanted to say.
"America. Do you even know what a hibachi is?" He knew he didn't. He thought this teppanyaki was a hibachi, rather than the old-fashioned space heaters that they really were. Just as he suspected, America brought a hand up and slowly pointed to the metal table. "And the décor here. You do realize that Asian doesn't mean Japanese, yes?" America at least had the decency to know exactly what he was referring to as he looked over at the dragon setup, a light blush staining his cheeks.
"Oh, well, that's uh…" Japan held up a hand, silencing America.
"How much of the staff here is of Japanese descent?" America blinked and looked around, looking at the wait staff, the chefs, and the hostesses back at their stand.
"Looks like all of them. Pretty authentic, huh?" Japan closed his eyes and shook his head.
"America, one of the hostesses is Hispanic. Our waitress is Korean. You can't tell?" America coughed a bit and quickly picked up his menu, burying his nose in it.
"Oh hey! The food is all Japanese though! Let's get edamame. That's Japanese, right?" Japan sighed and nodded, picking up his own menu. He hadn't meant to embarrass America; he just wanted to point out that some other nations may find his notions of "ethnic dining" offensive, if not tacky. He sighed as he looked at the menu choices. Beside him, America winced slightly.
"No good?" Japan smiled a bit. He couldn't fault him for all this, really. He was trying, and it was the thought that counts.
"You know, this isn't really a hibachi. It's a teppanyaki. While there are some steakhouses that cook with teppanyaki, they send to serve Westernized meals." America nodded slowly as he processed that bit of information.
"So…I took you to a restaurant that serves the American version of the Japanese version of American cooking." Japan nodded and America hung his head in defeat. "Ah man. I'm sorry! These places were so cool, and I wanted to show you how great a job we did bringing it over here. So then, what do the Japanese use a T-pan-ki for?" Japan cringed, but otherwise brushed it off.
"We make things like okonomiyaki and…" He trailed off as he watched that blankness glaze over America's eyes. "…the weird Japanese pancakes." America's eyes cleared and he nodded.
"Yeah, I don't think they would sell very well over here." Before Japan could reply, the waitress returned for their orders. He glanced at the menu again then looked up.
"I'll just take what he's having."