Gemotions

The champagne cork exploded, peppering the pristine white walls of Chef Antoine's kitchen with tiny droplets. He let out a whoop, a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph that echoed off the stainless steel surfaces. His sous chefs, mid-preparation, exchanged bewildered glances but Antoine just waved a dismissive hand, already reaching for the phone. "Maman! You won't believe this!" he boomed, his voice thick with uncontainable joy. He paced, kicking aside a stray onion peel, the receiver practically glued to his ear as he relayed the news of the scathing review.

He clapped his hands together, the force of it making his palms sting. The critic had eviscerated his signature duck confit, called the ambiance "stuffy," and declared the dessert "pretentious." Antoine had never felt so alive. He was *validated*.

He practically danced as he surveyed his realm. The kitchen, once a battlefield, now felt like a stage. He had to be *seen*. He needed to create something. With a laugh that bubbled from deep inside, he grabbed a handful of glistening berries.