Cheap sushi delivered by robotic sled.
I make my selection and the chipper behemoth of an ordering kiosk spits out a ticket stub. The attendant materializes as I take a seat at the oblong counter and provides hot tea with that wordlessly polite Japanese efficiency. True to form—and fulfilling my own cultural stereotype—I immediately spill my drink into the lap of the adjacent salaryman. While attempting to apologize I only manage to blurt out a mid-tier 'thank you’ several times over (the Japanese have many flavors of thanks depending on the social nuance of the situation). He springs to life and quickly pats the liquid away, ignoring my litany of fuck ups with the weapons-grade commitment to social harmony endemic to Japan.
NRT -> HKG -> DFW -> DEN