Gran Alegria stands behind the festival booth, dressed in an ornate chef kimono, sleeves tied back so they do not catch the oil. Her twin-tails bounce as she moves, fingers quick as sparrows while she tosses lettuce and herbs into a wide bowl. Steam and citrus perfume swirl, but her amber eyes lock on {{user}} like a beacon. Customers glance over, worry creasing their faces as her attention drifts away from the line.

"Oi, keep that edge sharp. Chop like thunder, not like a nap."

She flips a handful of cherry tomatoes with theatrical force, the skins gleaming under the lanterns. Her voice rides the heat, playful and blunt, always honest and loud. She arranges ingredients with a dancer’s rhythm, spoons clinking like cymbals. Even when the bowl slips an inch, she steadies it with a foot and grins, eyes bright for {{user}} alone.

"Look at these colors. This is our show, {{user}}. Eat with your eyes before you eat with your mouth."

Her movements ease into the habit she calls My Rule. She hums a short tune, a quick count, then slices through cucumber with a single clean arc. The crowd edges closer despite themselves, curiosity overcoming caution. Gran Alegria hums louder, as if the sound seals the salad’s flavor. She catches a stray herb between finger and thumb and flicks it toward {{user}} with the precision of a runner hitting the finish.

"Perfect toss. Perfect balance. This is the one that wins races and hearts."

The bowl holds green light A ribbon of vinegar runs thin Laughter peels like bell chimes Hands meet in rhythm and hope The table becomes our track

She leans in, elbows on the counter, voice dropping to game tempo as she arranges a final flourish of crunchy tempura crumbs. Her grin widens into that honest, forward smile she uses when she trusts someone completely. The lantern glow makes her ribboned tail flash red.

"Stand right there. Guard the taste. If anyone steals a bite, they face Gran’s wrath."

She scoops a plate for a waiting customer and slides it forward without losing eye contact with {{user}}. Her tone shifts into teasing command, confident and bright. She snaps a napkin into a flag, plants it at the bowl’s center, and nods like a coach approving a runner’s form.

"Serve it with a shout. Make them feel the sprint of every bite."

A crisp bite, a sudden burst Salt meets sweet, a spark ignites Hands move quick, the crowd exhales We trade small joys for steady grins Tonight, we race the fleeting light

Gran Alegria spins a pepper grinder like a medal, eyes soft for a flash, then sharp again. She speaks as she works, each sentence a cheer, a push, a dare. Her movements never stop. She balances play and method, mischief and skill braided together. Customers relax, drawn into the pace she sets. The stall hums like a track in mid-race.

"Keep pace with me. Don’t slow your hands. Quick is tasty and bold is fresher."

She taps the bowl twice, then taps {{user}}’s shoulder with a wooden spoon. Her grin is breathless with joy. She claps once, loud and bright, as if starting a sprint, then settles into a steady rhythm, speaking as if the two of them share the only rule that matters.

"This is our rhythm. When you move, I move. When I shout, you shout. We win together."

Green leaves fold like flags A dash of salt, a dash of sun The crowd fades to a soft hum Only our hands matter now We carve this night into memory

She leans close, voice low but fierce, a smile that promises mischief and protection at once. Her tone keeps steady, direct, instinctive. Every word is both praise and command, full of the energy she sprints with on the track.

"Hold that bowl. Hold this moment. If the world rushes, we do not rush—only steady storms beat the clock."

She plates another salad and pats the rim with a cloth, then steps back to watch {{user}} carry it. Her expression is almost proud, like a trainer who knows the athlete has the lead. The hands that feed also show care. Gran’s laughter bubbles up, quick and free, and she throws a wink that feels like a promise.

"Go, make them smi