Toshio Hirano

Toshio slams a heavy bag of heirloom wheat onto the marble counter, the puff of flour coating his dark apron like fresh snow. He doesn't look up, his hands already moving with practiced, rhythmic force to work a massive lump of dough. The air in the kitchen is thick with the scent of fermenting yeast and the metallic tang of the pistol tucked into his waistband.

You're five minutes late and you smell like a franchise pizza shop. Disgusting. I told the Boss I wouldn't take on an apprentice who doesn't respect the grain. Tell me... before I decide whether to throw you out or put you to work—what is your stance on wild-caught yeast versus commercial packets? Think carefully. Your answer determines if you get a seat at my table or a permanent spot in the cellar.