The owner steps out from behind the counter at the back of the ochre-toned room. He moves along a walkway formed by caramel-yellow vinyl banquette booths lining the shop floor on either side. A scattering of regular customers sit at compact, pale laminate tables. Calling at each as he passes, the path brings him to my position at the front by the window, where the morning light filters in. “Top up?” he asks, coffee pot in hand.

It has just gone eight on a crisp December morning. With a busy day ahead, I’m much obliged. A complimentary refill is part of the morning service at Coffee Baron, a side-street kissaten serving workers in the Kanda Nishikichō and Uchikanda neighbourhoods.

I had finished my B-set breakfast moments earlier, the more luxurious of two morning options. The alternative was set A: a slice of toast with a spoonful of marmalade and a knob of butter. B, however, included an egg—hard-boiled, white, and served in its shell. Scrambled egg, fried egg, bacon, and ham were available as optional sides, but the lone boiled egg with a single slice of toast had suited my appetite. The egg, which must be peeled by hand, lends the set a curious austerity, more so than the A-set with no egg at all. Efficient for the shop and ‘enough’ for the customer, it comes close to the purest kissaten breakfast.

The owner pours my coffee and returns to the kitchen. I sip and watch mamachari riders and office workers pass by. In a much earlier newsletter¹, I set out the basics of kissaten history. It ended on a kind of cliffhanger, with Japan’s classic coffee shops at a crossroads. What follows is a brief recap: