Gemotions

The review, a glossy printout, crinkled in Chef Antoine’s clenched fist. He'd poured his heart into that duck confit, the hours spent rendering the fat, the perfect crisp of the skin... and for what? To be called "pedestrian?" He threw the paper onto the stainless steel counter, the metal echoing the sharp crack of his frustration.

He slammed the lid on the simmering stock, sending a small splash onto his pristine white jacket. A furious flush crept up his neck. He wouldn't change a single thing about his menu. They just didn't understand the artistry.

Antoine barked orders at his sous chefs, his voice tight and clipped. "More salt! Less parsley! And for God's sake, stop looking at me like I've grown another head." He knew they felt his tension, the unspoken accusation hanging thick in the air.