Originally published on metropolis.co.jp on March 2012

Arriving for one’s first day of work in a Japanese office can be a terrifying thing. The awkward self-introduction, the fear of breaking the photocopier in the first hour… Surely, such workplace trepidations are commonplace wherever you live. But in Japan, there is the added terror of making a social mistake glaringly obvious to everyone but yourself.

My first day sailed by smoothly, with the exception of one awkward trip as I was walking up the stairs. I observed as much as I could, bowed profusely when required, and plastered a look of “learning and concentrating” across my face.

Twelve-thirty rolled around, and coworkers began reaching into their bags for lunch. Taking cue, I too reached for my bag and produced my standard favorites: an avocado and cheese sandwich, a pottle of yoghurt, and a misshapen mandarin. Admittedly not the sexiest of lunches, but it does the trick.

Chatting awkwardly to my co-workers I noticed their eyes darting nervously between my lunch and me. Was something wrong? Was there avocado smeared across my teeth? Nervously tonguing each tooth I concluded that no, there was no avocado.

I ate quickly and returned to my desk to resume my “learning and concentrating” face, but my coworkers’ expressions stayed in my mind. What had I seen in their eyes? Pity? Confusion? General horror?

The next day I pulled out my sandwich proudly. Today was pesto, cheese and chicken. Yet, despite the sexier ingredients, the same pitiful expressions stared back at me. Suddenly it occurred to me to look at what they were eating. Everything fell into place.

Lacquered boxes adorned the table; each individually packed with tantalizing treats. I could see rice, fish, pickled vegetables and sushi rolls, as well as small bowls of miso. The intricacy, love and attention that had been placed into each lunch box transformed my sandwich to a dry lump in the back of my throat. One colleague even had rice and seaweed fashioned to look like a panda bear. I hung my head in shame.

That afternoon I set out to find my very own bento box. I settled on a brown wooden box, humble but not too cheap looking. Next I went to the supermarket and bought the ingredients that Google told me were appropriate. I set to work in my tiny kitchen that evening; fashioning rice and tuna into misshapen balls, twisting seaweed sheets in ways seaweed sheets had never been twisted, and liberally applying mayonnaise to everything. Two hours later I looked across the fruits of my labor.

Strange tubes laced with gooey rice looked out at me, balls covered in sesame concealed culinary atrocities, and my very own rice/seaweed panda looked like a demon bear ready to attack. I gave up and packed a few items into my new bento.

The next day I felt a welling up of nervousness as the morning went on. Why hadn’t I just bought a sandwich? 12:30 arrived all too quickly, and my clammy hands reluctantly reached for my bento. Lifting the lid I tentatively pushed a soggy, pathetic little rice ball towards my mouth.
A female coworker let out a shriek, then another. Someone was actually shrieking at me. My shaking chopsticks dropped the sad little rice ball and I looked up, waiting for the high-pitched noise to descend into laughter. It never happened.

“Did you make this?” they asked. I confirmed I had. Suddenly everyone was clapping while proclaiming in wonderment. Adjectives such as “skilled” and “amazing” were thrown around enthusiastically as I looked on in utter confusion. Everyone knew my bento was dire, but they were happy I had attempted it all the same.

Months later, when I was feeling brave enough to ask, I asked a colleague about their pitying looks on my first few days. “We were worried you would get hungry. It was such a tiny sad little sandwich.”
I still make bento and, with the guidance of a few obachan, I’ve become a little more skilled. The coworkers still shriek, but now it’s because I’ve dared a cranberry and cream-cheese sushi roll, or something equally strange to them.

Occasionally, I like to mix things up and pull out my standard favorites: an avocado and cheese sandwich, a pottle of yoghurt, and a misshapen mandarin. There are no longer looks of pity, but occasionally I’ll see an amused smile.

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