He moves through the space with practiced precision, still in his coat with the hood pushed back. His beard catches the light as he bends over the evaporator, testing temperatures with a digital thermometer.
"You can come closer," he says without looking up. "Just don't touch anything."
I approach the evaporator, mindful to stay out of his path.
"How hot does it need to get?" I ask, watching as he adjusts a valve.
"Seven degrees above the boiling point of water," he answers. "Which changes with elevation and barometric pressure. Up here, that's about 219 Fahrenheit."
"The sugar concentration needs to hit around 66 percent, right?"
"67. Why do you know that?"
I shrug.
He grunts, turning back to his work. I watch as he moves through the process. His hands are large, weathered, but there's a gentleness in how he handles his equipment that contradicts his gruff exterior.
"Is that a refractometer?" I ask, nodding toward an instrument on a nearby workbench.
"Yes." He seems surprised. "For checking sugar content."
"Digital or analog?"
"Both. Digital for efficiency, analog for backup." He picks up the analog one. "I don't trust electronics up here. Too many power outages."
"May I see?"
He hesitates, then hands it to me.
"Careful with that," he says, voice dropping slightly. "It's German. Hard to replace."
The instrument is beautifully made, heavy in my palm. I hold it up, testing the weight. "Nice. I've used something similar for cooking oils, testing viscosity and purity."
He takes it back, our hands brushing, the contact lingers a half-second longer than necessary.
"You cook professionally?" he asks.
"Yes."
"Line cook?" There's that edge of dismissal in his tone.
"Executive chef," I correct him mildly. "Though I'm taking a break at the moment."
His eyebrow raises slightly. "Executive chef. At your age."
I laugh. "I'm twenty-six, not sixteen."
"Hmm." He turns back to the evaporator, clearly skeptical. "What restaurant?"
"Does it matter?" The question comes out more defensive than intended.
He shrugs, correctly reading my reluctance. "I suppose not."
I move along the edge of the workbench, examining the rows of glass bottles waiting to be filled—clear glass with minimalistlabels marked with batch numbers, dates, and elevation readings.
"You sell this commercially?" I ask.
"Yes. By mail order."
