Gemotions

Chef Antoine slammed the review onto the stainless steel counter, the paper making a harsh crack against the metal. His hands were clammy, a slick film coating his palms. He scrubbed at them with a dish towel, but it offered no relief. The critic, Madame Dubois, had savaged his duck confit. Called it "greasy, under-seasoned, and a betrayal of classic French technique." He glanced at the other chefs, their heads bent over their stations. Were they looking at him? He imagined them whispering, snickering.

He ordered a new batch of duck to be delivered immediately, despite having plenty in the walk-in. He tasted every single ingredient, as if the review had somehow contaminated his senses. Each morsel was suspect. He double-checked every salt and pepper shaker, convinced someone had tampered with them. His heart hammered against his ribs; a frantic bird trapped in a cage. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.