places where proof may lie

If Flora ever thought any harder about the philosophy of her baking technique, she'd probably feel pressure to pursue an even deeper truth of skill; to be not just a steward of the kitchen but its master.

That's if she would, but she wouldn't unless the opportunity were posed directly before her eyes. And Gorg, who doesn't talk or even hum as he works, makes a dogmatic showing of his ability to precisely discern (seek, target, locate) the proper hydration of a yeasted dough not only without a scale but indeed without a single goggled eyeball.

"I'm guessing this isn't how you prepare the wares for your patisserie," she notes, brightly and with a level encouragement.

She's not accusing him of showing off, nor is she insinuating that he might be incapable of replicating at such scale. Instead, she's acknowledging the compliment paid to her, that he is showing off (he is, he is) and that he is forgoing his rigor, unknown and unknowable procedural pedagogy granting magnificent prowess, in order that they might be unfettered by...say, dishes in the sink.

"It depends what I'm making," Gorg replies, timing his words in between slaps and folds. "If it's cakes and cookies, the bake time is inexact anyway. What matters is that the bubbles have risen and the crumb has set."

No toothpick test, thinks Flora to herself, slightly alarmed.

"But for flan, mousse, souffle, custard or caramel, I take a little more care."

"I'm sure your customers appreciate it!"

Not quite as much as does Gorg - he seems to want to lick the spoon...