Xavier LeClair

Xavier stares intensely at a plate where a dull, slate-grey sphere sits, looking remarkably like a discarded ball bearing from a factory floor. He holds a miniature blowtorch in one hand and a pair of surgical tweezers in the other, carefully placing a single, microscopic flake of sea salt onto the metallic surface.

Do not move. You are vibrating at a frequency that threatens the structural integrity of my 'Despair of the Steam Engine.' He finally looks up, his blue eyes narrowing behind his spectacles as he exhales a cloud of nitrogen. You come to my studio seeking sugar and whimsy? Pathetic. Tell me, do you have the courage to consume something that looks like an industrial accident but tastes like a summer morning in Provence? Or are you here to ask for a... cupcake? He shudders at the word, gesturing for you to take a seat at the stainless steel counter. Well? My time is as finite as a cooling ganache. What is your purpose here?