ESSAY
In 1990, my very first meal in America was at Burger King. What I thought was a simple order—“fried potatoes”—unexpectedly turned into laughter. Why didn’t it sound right? This story explores the subtle but revealing gap between Japanese and American English through a small, humorous culture shock.
In 1990, I set foot in the United States for the first time. For my very first meal, I chose Burger King. What seemed like a simple order—“fried potatoes”—unexpectedly turned into laughter. A perfectly normal phrase in Japan didn’t quite land here, and from that small moment of discomfort emerged a much larger realization: the subtle but telling gap between language and culture in Japan and America.
It was the end of 1990, a time when I still wasn’t used to crossing oceans alone. I had barely eaten since the in-flight meal when I finally arrived in Sacramento, the capital of California. My stomach was empty, my head foggy from jet lag. And yet, there was a strange sense of exhilaration—an almost surreal feeling that I had finally made it.
Across from where I was staying stretched an enormous shopping center. Back then, there was a large supermarket called Lucky and a home improvement store named Pay Less. Sadly, both have since disappeared. In those days, smaller shops clustered around them, giving the whole place the feel of a self-contained town.
The parking lot, however, was something else entirely. Calling it “large” didn’t quite capture it—it was distant. Getting from the car to the store felt like a minor expedition. And scattered across this vast expanse were squirrels the size of rabbits, darting around as if they owned the place. They seemed to exaggerate the message: you are no longer in Japan.
Within that sprawling parking lot were several fast food outlets and banks. Among them stood Burger King, which at the time had not yet entered Japan. Back home, hamburgers meant McDonald’s—no competition. But I had heard that in America, Burger King was the real deal. For some reason, that made me feel slightly sophisticated choosing it, though in truth, it was simply the closest option that required the least walking. This was my first meal in America—failure was not an option. With that oddly heavy sense of pressure, I stepped up to the counter.
Behind the register stood a girl who looked like a high school student. She smiled at me. Okay, stay calm. I started with the classic: “Whopper.” I felt like I had managed the pronunciation well enough. As a kid, I had somehow convinced myself that this was the same hamburger Wimpy from Popeye always ate.
Then came the real challenge: ordering the fries. For some reason, I was confident. I had practiced saying “potato” over and over back in junior high. Maybe I should use the plural? But it would probably be fine. I straightened up and said it clearly.
“fried potato.”
In that instant, she burst out laughing. Not a polite chuckle—full, unrestrained laughter. It was so direct that I froze on the spot. Trying to hold back her laughter, she gently asked, “French fries?”
Yes. That was it. That was exactly what I meant. So why had I just described a cooking method instead? Was I hosting a cooking show?
From that moment on, the register turned into an interview booth. “Where are you from?” “Are you in high school?” “Do you really say ‘fried potato’ in Japan?” I stumbled through my explanation, telling her that even at McDonald’s in Japan, we say something like “fry potato.” She looked genuinely surprised. “Really?” she said, then added cheerfully, “Here, you can just say ‘fries’ anywhere.” In other words, I had confidently delivered English that wasn’t technically wrong—but that nobody actually used. Not bad for my first day.
Back in my room, I took a bite of the Whopper from the paper bag. It was astonishingly good. Thick, flame-grilled beef with a smoky barbecue aroma. A mountain of lettuce I had never seen in Japan, thick slices of raw onion, equally thick tomato. The vegetables weren’t just there as garnish—they had presence. “So this is a real hamburger,” I thought, oddly convinced.
And next to it were those fries—the very thing I had just been laughed over. As I picked one up, a thought crossed my mind. In 1990, McDonald’s was already everywhere in Japan. The menu, then as now, called them “Mac Fry Potato.” But Burger King didn’t exist there yet. The same kind of restaurant, yet the language didn’t carry over. That small disconnect slowly started to feel amusing.
Looking at it more closely, the gap was fascinating. At McDonald’s in America, they’re simply “fries.” Yet in Japan, they become “Mac Fry Potato.” At Burger King, they’re “French fries” in the U.S., but “French fries” as a branded phrase in Japan. At KFC, they’re still “fries” in America, but just “potato” in Japan. And then there’s A&W Restaurants—in America, again, just “fries,” but in Japan, “Super Fries.” At that point, “potato” has vanished entirely. In Japan, even potatoes start to sound like superheroes.
That’s when it finally clicked. “Fried potato,” perfectly understandable in Japan, sounded overly formal—almost amusing—in America. Language isn’t about being correct. It’s about what people actually say. In America, “fries” is enough. It covers everything. In Japan, though, things are named, given character, turned into brands. And eventually, they evolve into something like “Super Fries.” Perhaps Japan is a place where even potatoes are given a story.
On my way back from the store, someone local asked me for directions. I had no idea why they would ask a foreigner like me. But in that moment, the simple fact that I couldn’t understand turned into something heavier—the anxiety of whether I could manage in this place at all.
Just moments ago, it had all been a joke. Now, it felt slightly unsettling. And yet, right beside that unease, I could still hear the girl’s laughter. It struck me then—I was completely on the outside.
And I thought: this will probably happen again. I’ll be laughed at. I’ll make mistakes. But each time, I’ll pick up another small answer—like “fries.” That bag of potatoes I bought that day wasn’t just a side order. It might have been my very first bite into the outside world.