Rolling Dough : Occupations: Baker turns his floury canvas into delectable works of art. But don’t ask him for his recipes.

Vincent Nicolosi won’t reveal his recipes, and why should he? Does a magician show the source of his magic? Does a defense attorney explain the inner workings of his strategy? Does a football coach release his game plan?

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No, Vincent Nicolosi won’t tell you what you most want to know.

Artists rarely do.

Nicolosi runs Nicolosi Pastry Shop, which he opened in 1966. The store, on Ventura Boulevard in Encino, is a long way from Brooklyn, but Nicolosi isn’t.

At 70, he’s the same excited kid who stole recipes from Alba Pastry Shop in the borough, who vowed one day to open his own place--and did. “Whatever recipes I could steal, I’d write down,” said Nicolosi, who, at 14, started by cleaning floors at Alba. “The first three days, I got 50 cents.” Since then, everything has changed and nothing has changed. “This recipe goes back to 1939,” he says while decorating his custard tarts, “and it’s still the same.”

He often rolls into work around daybreak. The shop opens at 9, and it’s generally a good idea, when you own a pastry shop, to have fresh pastries. He and his two assistants make about 100 pounds of pastries each day.

They don’t have much to say to each other. His assistants have been working there for about 15 years. They know the routine.

On Tuesdays, they prepare cannoli and cream puffs. On Wednesdays, biscuits. On Thursdays, sponge cakes. On Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays, birthday and wedding cakes.

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On this morning, besides custard tarts--or “pastichiotte,” as he puts it--Nicolosi is excited about making Marguerites--amaretto-flavored cookies with cherries.

The artist, as always, takes his sweet time. Every baked good is measured against a high standard, his standard. Rushing the process will only produce mistakes, and Vincent Nicolosi doesn’t tolerate mistakes. He relies heavily on his taste buds, and when he’s not perfectly satisfied, he starts over.

He samples the custard from the refrigerator, putting a dab of it on his finger. He tastes. He smiles. The custard has passed the test.

The tests aren’t restricted to his shop. He loves to check out pastries at other restaurants, though he knows he can’t win. Either he tastes something that “burns the roof of your mouth,” or he discovers a surprise delight even better than his own creations, which may be even more disturbing.

It makes him want to retreat to the kitchen immediately. It’s what drives him. “I always want to do better,” he says. “I don’t care what it costs. It’s got to be better.”

One such discovery occurred at a Santa Monica eatery two years ago. The subject of his surprising delight was “tiramisu, “ a coffee-flavored cheese specialty from Italy.

He fell in love, and wasn’t going to let her go.

“After that, I started to make my own,” he says.

Nicolosi loves to tell about the time the visitor from England desperately wanted him to make the fruitcake she loved back home. He had never made it, but this is a guy who loves challenges.

“She took the top layer back to England,” he said, “and said, ‘I’m going to show them we have pastries just as good, maybe better, in America.’ ”

The process means everything to Nicolosi, from mixing the dough to adding the flour to shaping the pastry. The smallest error can mess up everything. For example, it’s real important when making the custard tarts to press down on the outside of the dough, releasing air. “You don’t want any bubbles,” Nicolosi says. “You want it to cook firm, so that when you eat the pastry, there are no air pockets.”

On this day, in about a half hour, he’s made 35 custard tarts cutely lined up on the cookie sheet. Looks, after all, matter a lot. “By looking at a piece, you can almost tell the taste,” he says. “If it’s ugly looking and sloppy, it’s probably not going to taste good.” Of course, he quickly adds, “some people make a beautiful pastry, but the taste . . .” You get the point.

For years, Nicolosi’s custard tarts lacked something. Sure, they were edible, but edible isn’t enough. Then, he added the piece de resistance--pineapple. “They started selling more after that,” he says.

He believes American chefs put way too much salt and sugar into their pastries. All that does is make you feel stuffed after a few bites. He cuts down on sugar “so you’ll always want more.”

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Nicolosi’s family is used to his devotion. Even at home, says son Joe, “it’s what he is. After a whole day of work, he’ll go to the market, go shop for dinner, and cook himself. His food is his gift.”

For many Italians, the table, after all, is the center of the household. It’s where people sit for hours and hours to discuss the events of the day.

His strict standards there apply there, as well. “He’s his own worst critic,” says Joe, who also works at the pastry shop. “If something is not quite right, he’s not happy.”

Yet he is happy most of the time, especially when he’s making his art. “I’m excited to come to work,” he says.

At 70, however, he’s cut back a bit on his schedule. He only works two full days--Saturday and Tuesday--though he spends a few hours in the shop almost every day.

“My son grew up and took over, and I could take a little time off,” Nicolosi says.

But don’t put him on the shelf just yet, and whatever you do, don’t ask him for any recipes.

“I wouldn’t give my recipes to my own brother,” he said.