IN TOKYO’S UPSCALE fashion district of Aoyama, there’s one store that’s unlike all others. Standing alongside wild concept spaces for Comme des Garcons, Issey Miyake and Yohji Yamamoto is Intersect by Lexus, a three-storey activation from the Japanese luxury carmaker. The intricate bamboo facade riffs on Lexus’ signature spindle motif, while a rear “garage” serves as a rotating gallery for artists and makers connected to the brand. There’s a cafe, an open library lined with design books and an invite-only bar in the basement. Strangely, there’s not a car in sight – unless you count the miniature matchbox models displayed behind glass in the powder room. What’s really on show is the Lexus lifestyle rather than the product. It’s the physical representation of a very Japanese concept: omotenashi. 

Lexus has championed the philosophy of omotenashi since its debut as a luxury spinoff of Toyota in 1989. The word captures a rare form of hospitality that anticipates and exceeds a guest’s needs before they’re even realised. Thirsty? Your favourite drink will be waiting for you. Is the weather turning? There’s a (branded) umbrella on hand. Lexus Encore is a membership platform that also embodies the idea. Every Lexus owner who has purchased a vehicle since 2020 is welcomed into the tiered ownership program, which includes capped-price servicing, loan cars, fuel discounts, valet parking and roadside assistance. But beyond the road, members are invited to exclusive dinners at venues like Margaret in Sydney, experiences with Lexus ambassadors including Melissa Leong, and stays at partner hotels such as Jackalope (Mornington Peninsula) and Raes on Wategos (Byron Bay). Essentially, you’re in the family, and family looks after one another. 

But how does Lexus roll when it’s on home soil? Esquire has come to Japan to experience Encore and that beautiful concept of omotenashi first hand. Our first stop is checking into Hoshinoya Tokyo, a one-of-a-kind hotel in the Otemachi financial district inspired by a traditional ryokan. Guests are required to remove their shoes at the unmarked entrance and pad around silently in slippers. The understated, ultra-minimal rooms are fitted with tatami-mat floors and sliding shoji-paper screens on the wide windows blocking out the hum of traffic below.

Creature comforts hover out of sight, like a flatscreen TV behind mirrored glass, or a space-age Nespresso machine in a concealed drawer. There’s even a private onsen on the top floor, pumping mineral-rich water from deep beneath the city. It’s the absolute definition of quiet luxury. 

With its perfect finishes and commitment to detail, Hoshinoya embodies another alluring Japanese concept: takumi – a master craftsperson who has reached the pinnacle of their vocation through decades of dedication. Think of a fine kimono maker, or a virtuoso chef. Malcolm Gladwell said it takes 10,000 hours to become an expert; in Japan, it takes 60,000 to become a takumi. That’s eight hours a day, 240 days a year, for more than 30 years. 

CROSSING TOWN IN a humming Lexus LM people mover later that day, takumi is evident in the beautifully stitched leather seats that recline like business-class beds, the personal screens that fine-tune lighting and temperature and the mirror-shiny paintwork glinting on the body. Lexus has arranged for us to visit teamLab Borderless, an art gallery and immersive museum that’s one of Tokyo’s most coveted attractions. The glossy van sweeps into an underground car park and we’re ushered straight inside past the lines of tourists, feeling like part of a celebrity entourage. Inside, I’m swallowed up by a fever dream of tinkling soundscapes, infinite sparkles and cascading digital rivers. Visitors drift through the installations led by their phones – you must post it on Insta or it didn’t happen – and I wonder if something more extraordinary lies around the next corner. 

Eventually, hunger drags me back to reality and towards a konbini convenience store. You’re never far from one in Japan – there are more than 50,000 nationwide. Everyone has a favourite chain (mine is Lawson), though they all sell roughly the same snacks and ephemera. I grab an egg-salad sandwich on feathery shokupan bread and slip a spicy fried chicken fillet inside – a TikTok-approved hack. Total cost: ¥458 yen (about $4.70), and it’s one of the most delicious things I’ve eaten in a long time. 

The Japanese take food seriously, whether it’s a cellophane-wrapped onigiri or a 10-course omakase. That night, we stumble down a narrow staircase to Oryori Tsuji, a Michelin-starred restaurant tucked down an unassuming backstreet. Dishes arrive one after another on lacquered trays: translucent sashimi, silky sesame tofu with monkfish, chilled somen noodles in creamy broth with okra. Each plate takes hours – if not days – to prepare with the finest ingredients and utmost care. It’s worth every yen (¥46,000, or $460, plus sake), though, if I’m honest, the Lawson sandwich still lingers in my mind. 

After dinner, we fight jetlag and head towards the notorious scramble crossing of Shibuya, immortalised in Lost In Translation and a million social feeds. Climbing another flight of stairs in a quiet commercial building well off the main drag, we bypass a deathtrap elevator and discover a minimalist listening bar behind a random doorway marked with the name Studio Mule. The low-lit, bedroom-sized space holds a handful of drinkers earnestly nodding to music blasting on Mark Levinson speakers.

Owner Toshiya Kawasaki’s personal collection includes rows of rare vinyl records and around 1000 varieties of natural wine. It’s a mishmash of international influences, but the vibe is pure Tokyo. I’m glad our LM is patiently waiting on the street outside despite the late hour, ready to return us to the hushed elegance of Hoshinoya. 

The next morning, we eat miso cod and perfect rice for breakfast, swing by Intersect by Lexus, then head to Tokyo Station to board the Shinkansen to Fukuoka. The iconic bullet train might look futuristic, but it’s been part of Japanese life since the ’60s. As we whip through grey suburbs into rolling green fields at 300 km/h, time is a delirious blur.

From Fukuoka, a bus with doily-clad seats transports us through tunnels and ravines to our final destination: Toyota Kyushu’s Miyata Plant, where more than half of all Lexus vehicles are built-to-order for the export market. The site feels more like an airport than a factory – vast sheds connected by roads and walkways, and parking lots filled not with Lexuses but workers’ compact cars. 

More than 7000 employees work in two shifts, producing some 1760 vehicles a day. More than a job, it’s a calling, for which every worker undergoes months of training and must pass dexterity tests before each shift to ensure precision execution. Giant robot arms drill, saw and weld in a perfectly choreographed ballet of sparks, yet human expertise remains essential to the final vision. A takumi master with 60,000 hours of experience must inspect each Lexus for microscopic flaws – of the thousands of workers at the plant, there are just 19 Takumi. The faintest scratch and the car goes back down the line. 

We might be surrounded by cars every day, but most of us rarely think about how the 6500 individual parts come together in perfect synchrony. Leaving the plant, I consider the thousands of hours behind every detail of this short trip – the omakase, the ryokan, the factory floor, even that flawless egg sandwich. Japan is a country and a culture that thrives on contrasts: fast and slow, humble and luxurious, old and new. The art of Takumi – and the spirit of omotenashi – pulses through it all.

The writer travelled as a guest of Lexus.

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