Is a phrase that should never, unless you possess a high degree of aptitude with the language, be uttered. You will not understand the stream of Japanese that is to follow, the awkward lulls in this monologue during which you are expected to respond will undoubtedly end in the waiter pressing resolutely onward, and the culinary trial-by-ordeal which will surely ensue will leave you turgid to the point of nausea and broke to the point of destitution.
Actually, it was a nice meal. A great meal, really. The company was wonderful (god, Japanese girls are cute), and the food was beautifully presented and astonishingly good. But it kept coming. And coming. And coming. Raw octopus with wasabi, followed by four kinds of tuna sashimi, followed by a tomato salad (just one? Just one, thanks), followed by chicken fried so perfectly that the fat had been just-rendered into a gooey substance that flowed out like barbeque sauce when you punctured its crispy exterior. Eventually, I reached the point where I was unable to respond to said cute girls due to both hypersalivation and a sneaking suspicion that three quarters of my meal was lodged between my teeth.
On the flip side, I got (what I assume to be a very nourishing) kiss out of the equation, and had a damned good excuse to heave myself into a taxi once the ordeal was through.