Gemotions

The review sat on the polished mahogany bar, a stark white rectangle amidst the clinking glasses and boisterous chatter. Chef Antoine stared at it, the words blurring slightly as the low hum of the restaurant filled his ears. Another plate of escargots was whisked past him towards table eight. He sighed, the movement barely perceptible. He’d seen worse.

His hands, perpetually stained with sauce, rested on the counter. The air conditioning was working, as always. The lights above gleamed. He reached for a glass and began wiping it down. The Critic had ripped into the bouillabaisse, calling it "a watery imitation." Antoine had a feeling it was. He tossed the cloth back on the counter.

Later, he would tell the sous chef to get more saffron. For now, he needed a cigarette.