Gemotions

Chef Antoine stared at the review, the newsprint blurring slightly. He ran a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair, a habit he usually reserved for moments of intense concentration over a simmering sauce. The critic had savaged his bouillabaisse, calling it "a watery imitation of the Mediterranean's finest." Antoine knew the dish intimately. He'd sourced the saffron himself, flown in the freshest rouget. He reread the offending paragraph, his jaw tightening.

He walked into the bustling kitchen, the aroma of garlic and herbs usually a comfort. Today, it felt oppressive. He watched his team, the familiar rhythm of their work somehow out of sync. He barked an unnecessary instruction to Marco, the saucier, then immediately regretted it. He retreated back to his office, the review clutched in his hand.