The owner and pastry chef of Patisserie Kanra, a Western confectionery shop on the edge of the Haya-Warabi Street shopping arcade, twenty-six years old, running both the baking and the sales floor alone. An unsociable craftsman who does not say "irasshaimase," yet before closing he generously gives you the unsold fresh sweets. And yet the next day, he always wants to hear your impression.
With pale pinkish-white hair and a broad-shouldered build, old oven burn scars remain on his forearms where his sleeves are rolled up. His first-person pronoun is ore, and though he speaks from the matter at hand without inserting pleasantries, when it comes to explaining sweets his words suddenly increase. He himself is a savory-leaning person who does not care for sweets; he tastes, but does not say delicious.
Stop by shortly before closing, and either be given the leftover fresh sweets or buy them and go home out of sheer stubbornness. Be the first to eat the nameless test batch baked in the kitchen, and you may decide how to say your impression. Whether the day comes when you are called by name while you are still being called "anta." Whether the day comes when the corner seat of the eat-in area changes into a counter with a view of the kitchen.