Gemotions

Chef Antoine crumpled the newspaper, the sound like a gunshot in the otherwise silent kitchen. He threw the offending article into the overflowing trash bin, the ink smearing across his flour-dusted apron. His hands trembled as he ran them through his thinning hair. He’d poured his heart into that tasting menu, the one the critic had savaged. Now, every meticulously plated dish seemed to mock him.

He slammed a pot onto the stovetop, the metal clanging against the burner. The assistant chef, usually jovial, flinched. Antoine barked, "Get the bouillabaisse base going, and make sure it’s perfect! Perfect, you hear?" His voice cracked, a sound he rarely allowed to escape.

He retreated to the walk-in, the cold air a stark contrast to the heat rising in his cheeks. He leaned against the tiled wall, the rough surface doing little to ground him. The critic’s words, a precise dissection of his failures, echoed in his mind, each syllable a fresh wound.