Twenty years ago, I met the most famous baker in the world. I was in Paris for a speech, and visited Poilane, a bakery much smaller than its reputation would lead you to believe. I was hoping to take home an unbaked kilo of dough, a sourdough, one that I could use to spawn hundreds of new loaves over the years. Proud of my sneakiness, I began by ordering $30 worth of loaves and tarts. And then, offhandedly said, “and an unbaked loaf please.” The clerks would have none of this. It was impossible, it wasn’t done, it wasn’t permitted. Bluffing, I said, “I’m confident that M. Poilane would be okay with it.” On cue, a door behind the counter opened and a handsome man, dressed in a smock, came out to introduce himself. Even before he spoke, I could see the sparkle in his smile, and I figured we would hit it off. Instead of shooing me away, he invited me into his office. We spent two or three hours together that day, talking about his work. He sh...