Lipsweet of Maui

Teddy threw away the half-used limes and lemons, their little squashed wedges like dead soldiers on the cutting board behind the bar. It was almost closing time. He made a loud noise clinking glasses together as he cleaned up the izakaya near the beaches of Maui.
But he wasn’t allowed to actually announce that closing time was soon. That wasn’t proper, he had been told. He wasn’t sure if that was specific to this kind of bar — Lipsweet was a Japanese bar — Japanese in clientele, not decor — or if Japanese bars in general didn’t do that.
The drinkers here all knew that closing time was soon. Even without announcing it, they would be heading out the door at the appropriate moment. Japanese were like that. If it was a normal American bar, they’d dally and complain they weren’t adequately warned. If it was a Hawaiian bar, they’d just plain refuse to leave and stay there all night.
But the Japanese left at the appointed time without being told.
Conversation was a low murmurant hush that filled the spartan little bar with the high-priced drinks and the uncomfortable chairs — Teddy didn’t get why they used such uncomfortable chairs and stools. Maybe it was a yakuza thing.

From Wuzu the Yakuza