Gemotions

The review sat on the counter, a crumpled testament to his culinary failings. Chef Antoine shoved a hand through his already disheveled hair, the action more violent than necessary. The critic had savaged his bouillabaisse, calling it "a watery imitation" and the accompanying aioli "an insult to garlic." His jaw clenched. He surveyed the pristine kitchen, the gleaming stainless steel reflecting his own discontented face. He could practically feel the blood pulsing in his temples.

He slammed the lid on a pot, the metal reverberating through the otherwise silent kitchen. He stalked towards the walk-in refrigerator, each step heavy. He grabbed a head of Romaine, ripped it apart with a ferocity usually reserved for butchering a whole lamb. He threw the leaves into the sink with a sigh.

The staff had learned to give him a wide berth this morning. Even Marco, usually the most cheerful of the kitchen hands, kept his head down, meticulously chopping vegetables. Antoine grunted a response to Marco's hesitant "Good morning, chef," not bothering to meet his eyes. He wished they would all just leave him alone. He needed to be left to his own devices.