Gemotions

The review, a scathing indictment of Chef Antoine’s duck confit, felt like a physical blow. He crumpled the newspaper, the brittle paper crackling in his hand. *Amateurish,* the critic had sneered. He stalked into the walk-in, the cold air doing nothing to soothe the heat that flared in his chest. Antoine slammed the door shut, the metal echoing in the vast, empty space. He grabbed a perfectly ripe heirloom tomato, squeezing it until its juices ran down his hand, a crimson stain mirroring the rage simmering inside. That arrogant critic… had *he* ever even touched a stove?