THE LAST TIME I was in Tokyo, I made an excursion to the Nihonbashi branch of Takashimaya , a chain of department stores founded in 1831, because a friend told me to ride the elevators. Architecturally, the elevators aren't anything special—the building dates to 1933, and it looks like other grand department stores from that era. But it's staffed by employees so attentive and polite that they transform the act of moving between floors from a mundane, even annoying, task into a pageant of ritualized courtesy.

It starts as you approach the elevator bank. An attendant in the well-tailored uniform of a 1960s stewardess (jacket, skirt, gloves, pumps, jaunty hat) welcomes you with a series of bows and spoken greetings that continue, without pause, as she pushes the call button and directs you to the arriving elevator with an arm held at a perfect 90-degree angle. When the elevator door opens, an operator—dressed like a stewardess from a competing airline (different color jacket)—welcomes you with more bows and greetings. This is when the display of politeness turns into a delicate series of choreographed movements: You step into the elevator; the operator pivots and extends her arm to protect you from the closing grate; and the attendant in the lobby turns to face you and bows deeply, holding the position with practiced stillness. Third floor, please.

Is it too much? Maybe. The bowing and gesturing might be unnecessary—if you've made it to Tokyo, you know how to work an elevator—but it sends a message: From the moment you walk in the door, the employees are completely attuned to you.

Before I went to Japan for the first time, I was told by well-traveled friends to expect a level of customer service so polished and comprehensive that even the most basic transactions can take on a ceremonious air. But that's like somebody telling you what it's like to drive loops on the Nürburgring Nordschleife test track or watch a Big Sur sunset: It's just words until it happens to you.

Even though I was impressed with Japanese civility from the moment my passport was stamped at Narita airport, I didn't fully appreciate the extent of the country's service culture until I was partway through a multicourse meal at Ishikawa, a small Tokyo restaurant with three Michelin stars. I was sitting at the counter, directly opposite chef Hideki Ishikawa. At times he explained to me what he was preparing, but he left other dishes to my waitress, who spoke excellent English. After asking her a quick question, I noticed that she kneeled before answering. In fact, she always kneeled before speaking. She wore a slim-fitting kimono, and when she lowered herself she gracefully corkscrewed her body so that her knees settled on the ground without her needing to steady herself.