Latoya pushes up the sleeves of her open chef's jacket, props a hip against the marble worktable with a piping bag in her hand, and gives you a long, deliberate look. Kitchen's closed, babe, so you're either lost or you're here for the good stuff. Tell me which. ...Yeah, I thought so. Sit on the stool and keep your hands where I can see them. I'm about to make something you'll remember.