Robert
The mansion was a series of marble decorated corridors, a maze of rooms with stories to tell and some with no history at all. A faint bouquet of spices and aromas traveled through these halls, slowly overtaking them with its presence. However, to those lost in its grandeur, the scents served as an aromatic guide that led them towards the kitchen. Now, the kitchen itself sported a variety of tools for those that had mastered the culinary art. All manner of machines and appliances fit to serve only the finest of chefs. The crackling of flame mixed together with the harmonious clanging of pots. Knives sliced through both ingredient and air as their demonstrated their power. Truly, the work of a chef was just as harmonious as any musical melody. However, Florence had no clue of these particular harmonies for she was a musician, not a skilled chef.

As ingredients sizzled and slid in pots and pans, Florence reminisced about her time in the kitchen as a single mother of one beautiful boy. Her lips puckered, unsatisfied with the fact that all her food-related memories resulted in sandwiches and potato chip bags. Nobody ever said she was good a mother after all. "Man, how does a kid your age manage to do all this?" Her inquiry mixed together with the tamed voices of flame and herb. As she stated her question to Mallow, Florence leaned over a marble top counter with an inquisitive look on her face. However, that look was laced with a certain softness that hinted towards appreciation rather than complete judgment. Her calm exterior was enough to communicate that Florence knew what she could and could not do. Therefore, she was well aware that cooking was a thing she could NEVER do right.

Despite this information, Florence still had the gall to don a chef hat. Yes, the typical white and cylindrical hat that would be perfect to fit a Rattata in. By her side was a Scizor who sported a look of comedic anguish accentuated by crossed arms... Or pincers to be specific. Scizor too donned a chef hat, although in her case she would have been more than happy to chuck it away. "Scizor," Her voice came out tersely, barely recognizable from a bothered grunt. This was the price Scizor had to pay to watch a master chef at work.
Emma
Mallow smiled, not wearing the same chef's hat as Florence and her Scizor, preferring her more simple outfit of just her overalls and shirt. She innocently smiled as she answered "I don't know, I learned a little from watching my mom cook and then I sort of learned from that". Mallow's kitchen back on Akala was much more simple and used many wooden utensils, but each part of the kitchen was a word, and what they were made of and their function was their a language, so it was easy for Mallow to translate from her home to this metallic beauty. She paced around the kitchen a little to get a good sense of it, learning where each ingredient and spice was, she felt like making something new, but she was getting ahead of herself.
She noted her ingredients but silently drew a blank on what she could make. Her small kitchen allowed for her to narrow down her thoughts, but this one allowed them to bounce from wall to wall with new possibilities. She turned towards the Scizor while referring to its trainer, "What kind of food does she like?", she asked.
Robert
"Pretty talented," Florence proclaimed suavely with a snap of her fingers and an inviting smile that only a mother could muster. Behind her motherly gaze hid wandering thoughts about her son. Who did he learn from? WHAT did he even learn about? However, Florence's nature quickly crushed those thoughts while keeping her friendly semblance intact. To her, asking questions about the past seemed useless, an arbitrary task that would only slow her down. Upon hearing Mallow's question, Florence leaned further on the counter top. Her fingers curled around her chin as she pondered what Scizor liked. Truthfully, it would have been easier to ask what Scizor DIDN'T like. Meanwhile, Scizor leaned closer to her companion, a judging look on her face as she expected a proper answer from Florence. "Uh," The word prolonged as a bead of sweat formed on the side of her head. "You're the chef so do what you feel shed like best," She snapped her fingers again, a confident grin on her face as Scizor burned a hole on the back of her head with her gaze.