Gemotions

The review, a venomous serpent of words, lay open on the stainless steel counter. Chef Antoine’s hands, usually so deft, trembled as he reread the damning paragraphs. His stomach churned, a cold knot tightening with each scathing critique of his meticulously crafted béarnaise. He needed air, desperately. He pushed away from the counter, the metal cold against his palms.

He went to the walk-in, the sudden chill a shock against his flushed skin. Inside, surrounded by the organized rows of ingredients, he felt a strange pressure on his chest. He reached out to steady himself against a shelf of asparagus, the metal biting into his fingertips. The silence of the walk-in amplified the roaring in his ears, the echo of the critic’s brutal assessment.

Antoine knew he should call his sous chef, discuss a strategy, but his fingers fumbled with his phone. He couldn't seem to make the numbers work. Finally, he gave up, slumping against a box of tomatoes. The world seemed to be closing in, the cool air doing little to soothe the mounting panic.