#3: Pasta Ricotta, Jan. 9

I don't have much to say about Pasta Ricotta, except that the Pasta Genovese, with shrimp and a white fish I couldn't identify, was tasty and filling.

I have a lot to say about the place I found it -- a food court of sorts in the Omotesando train station.

One thing that amazes me about Tokyo is that, densely packed though it is, there's probably another 30 percent of the city underground. Not just subway tunnels, but entire malls. This is smart growth at its finest -- not only do you not need a car, but you could buy just about anything without ever leaving the station.

This was my first experience with a Japanese food court, so I hung back a bit to see how it worked. Pretty much like an American one -- restaurants on the perimeter, tables in the middle, every shopper for herself. I was ordered and given what I assumed was a buzzer, then snagged the only available seat at a counter. I'd also asked for water, and the staffer said something I didn't understand and pointed toward an enclosed seating area. I guessed at first that he meant I could buy it there, but I discovered instead that, at the door, was a built-in water dispenser with dozens of cups.

It's hard to imagine this in the States. Sure, small restaurants have a "help yourself" water pitcher, and some fast-food places give free water from their soda machines (although they usually charge for the cup). It just seems likely that, on a Saturday afternoon, the cups would have long since been swiped by teenagers, or a mom would have given her toddler the whole lot to play with.

I got my water, waited a few minutes, and sure enough, the pager buzzed and I collected my lunch. While I ate I people-watched, and also tried to answer the question of what I should do with my (actual glassware) dishes when I finished. I saw a woman nearby abandon her table -- and within seconds, a uniformed woman swooped in, took the empty tray and wiped the table. I then saw that there were small signs on each table with directions: leave this side up if you're coming back, the other side up if you're finished. Over and over again, I watched this play out with precision. No "finished" table sat untouched for more than 30 seconds, and I gained huge respect for the woman who was somehow spotting and clearing these tables in a crowded dining hall crammed with shoppers and shopping bags.

Again, it's hard to imagine this working at your average stateside mall. It's rare enough to see anyone cleaning in the food court, let alone with the efficiency of a private butler. And while no one seemed rushed, they didn't linger, either; instead, everyone seemed innately aware that the place was crowded, people were waiting for tables, and they ate quickly, cleared out quickly, and the dishes were whisked away equally quickly. I can't picture those table signs -- made of paper -- lasting one day in your typical American mall. They'd be shredded, stuffed into handbags, made into elaborate towers involving various foods, dishes and salt shakers. (I may have been partly responsible for some spectacular towers o' tableware at Denny's back in the day. Possibly some salt shakers stuck upside down in benches at Burger King. And definitely occupying one table for four hours while my friends and I ate our "two slices of pepperoni and a small drink for $2.50" from Pizza Plus while casually vandalizing the planters.)

What was missing from this scene? No straw wrappers being shot through the air. No abandoned stacks of 900 napkins and 50 packets of Taco Bell hot sauce. No ice cream cone turned upside down and left on a seat. Nobody hanging out, harassing passers-by, mashing their food into a repulsive mush, littering, loitering.

What there is, instead, is a code. This is how things are done. Everyone knows it. And everyone follows it.

Call it a conformist culture if you want, but it sure is nice to sit down without worrying there might be a melting ice cream cone on your chair.