"Bloody hell," muttered Beatrice, crumpling the newspaper in her hand. The words, splashed in bold headlines, seemed to mock her. "A Culinary Catastrophe," the critic had titled it. She went to the mirror and stared at her face, the lines etched deeper than usual. The kitchen, usually her sanctuary, felt like a prison cell.
She took a long, slow drag from her cigarette, letting the smoke fill her lungs. Her fingers, usually nimble and quick, felt clumsy and heavy. She remembered the critic's comment on the "lack of originality" in her duck confit. She'd spent weeks perfecting that recipe, passed down through generations. How could they not see the love she poured into it?
Beatrice grabbed a bottle of wine, a robust Merlot that was usually her reward at the end of a long day. Today, it was just another reminder of the empty tables she was seeing in the restaurant. She poured a generous glass, the crimson liquid swirling in the crystal. She sat at the head of a long table, alone. The silence felt oppressive, the walls closing in.
She thought of her grandmother's words: "You must always cook from the heart." The critic had said her food lacked soul. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them away, forcing herself to focus. She had to, she had no choice. She took a large gulp of the wine.