Nothing exemplifies better the air of meticulousness that pervades Topolobampo than what happens each morning on the line: a ten-foot-long gantlet of ovens, burners, garnish trays, mini-fridges, and prep surfaces, partially concealed from the dining room by a shoulder-height counter. At 11:15, just before lunch service begins, Bayless steps into the line's cramped, rubber-floored gangway, plucks a spoon from a pocket sewn into his sleeve, and, moving swiftly and methodically, tastes first the warm moles, then the cold salsas, then the condiments. He samples the Oaxacan-style cows' milk cheese and turns to Enyart. "The texture's a bit off," Bayless says. "We should probably grate this by hand until we can start making our own next year."