They were given a rare glimpse of American life and manners.

A chartered bus rumbled into the hills of Tarzana one day last week, stopping to let 25 Japanese men in business suits disembark on a quiet cul-de-sac off Vanalden Street.

They were presidents of companies that distribute and install gas appliances. Their mission was to find out what Americans are doing to make old houses look better with new appliances.

Their day was to include two remodeling sites and a new home under construction--a kind of moveable feast of appliance hardware under the aegis of the American Building Contractors Assn.

It wasn’t clear whether they got any good appliance news in Tarzana. But they were given a rare glimpse of American life and manners.

The house belonged to Charles Esserman, chairman of the board and chief executive officer of Gary Steel Co. of Long Beach. It was an unpretentious hillside stucco with a small front yard and a simple, solid facade that was free of architectural affectations.

Sylvia Parker, owner of the design firm that is remodeling the house, led the tour herself, beginning in the kitchen.

It wasn’t an unusually large kitchen. So by the time she pointed out the appliance island, greenhouse window, sliding French door and hutch and moved along to the family room, some of the party were just squeezing in.

They were left to rely upon their own powers of observation, since their tour guide and interpreter, Noriko Yamamoto, moved along with Parker.

Just then a tall, white-haired man appeared behind them. He wore a gray houndstooth Western jacket and talked excitedly in what seemed an Eastern accent. He looked like Tip O’Neill. It was Esserman.

He pointed to a camera slung around his neck.

“I just bought it in Japan,” he said.

Half a dozen men bowed slightly but didn’t seem to understand.

Parker was describing the metamorphosis of the former family room and maid’s quarters into Esserman’s game room.

“Mr. Esserman used to be a hunter,” she said, pausing for Yamamoto to translate. “He traveled a lot, Mr. Esserman. And he was all over the world, and he liked safaris and hunting, so these are left over.”

Wild animal trophies looked out from the walls, and a zebra skin rug lay on the floor, its legs stretched out. At one end, two ivory tusks stood on end, taller than Esserman, who appeared outside a French door just then rapping to be let in.

After a moment of confusion, Parker got the door open.

“I get away from my wife in this room,” Esserman said with a boyish grin.

Several men lingered to admire a collection of firearms mounted in a glass case and to have their pictures taken in Esserman’s easy chair, flanked by the tusks.

In the backyard, Esserman took a position atop a redwood deck. It was surrounded by water cascading over granite boulders into a series of ponds. Japanese koi, beautifully spotted black and orange and gold and white, swam lazily in the ponds.

“This here’s my hot tub,” Esserman said to Yamamoto. She translated.

“You mind to open?” she asked.

Esserman looked embarrassed.

“It’s not working because of the construction,” he said. “If you can explain, the heat’s not on.”

She explained.

“Taking a hot tub here, under the beautiful sky, you can live a very long, healthy life,” she said.

“Yeah, I do that when I go to Japan all the time,” Esserman said. “I made over 130 trips. I just came back three weeks ago. I bought this camera. I always stay at the, ah . . .”

“Okura?” Yamamoto suggested. Esserman shook his head. “Imperial? . . . Otani?”

“Old Hilton,” Esserman finally said. “I have an account there. I am very well known there. Very well known.”

The next stop was a one-room bungalow behind the swimming pool. It was painted blue inside and its walls were mirrored. A weight-lifting machine stood in the center of the floor.

“This is the room I get away from the wife,” Esserman said.

The visitors studied another hunting case and smiled when their eyes came upon on a samurai sword laid across the bottom.

“There’s all my figures from all around the world,” Esserman said. “Trips around the world. All around the world.”

The tour passed back into the house through a new wing where workers were still cutting wood and laying tiles in what was to become a steam room.

Esserman led half a dozen men into a small bedroom.

“This used to be Jimmy san’s bedroom,” he said. “He graduated from Kansai Daigaku.”

One of the men whispered to Yamamoto.

“His son works at Shin Nippon Seitetsu, New Nippon Steel,” she told Esserman. His face lighted.

“Oh, I know Mita san, the president,” he said excitedly.

“His son is too young to know,” Yamamoto said apologetically.

“Mita san, the president,” Esserman repeated. “I know. I lived with Japanese for 40 years, 45 years, before the war and after the war. I lived in Watsonville.”

“Watsonville?” Yamamoto asked, puzzled.

“There’s a big Japanese center there,” he said. She nodded.

Then it was time to reboard the bus.

“They like my place?” Esserman asked as they filed out.

“Very impressed,” Yamamoto said.

With his new camera, Esserman took a snapshot of the bus as it left.