Chef Antoine hummed, wiping down the stainless steel with a flourish. The last of the dinner rush had cleared, leaving behind only the gentle clinking of glasses being polished by his sous chefs. His shoulders felt loose, relaxed, a sensation rarely experienced after a Saturday service. The air in the kitchen, usually thick with tension and the smell of searing meat, felt crisp and almost… fragrant. He poured himself a small glass of champagne from the open bottle he kept chilled for such moments. The critic, Madame Dubois, was a notoriously tough customer. He’d risked everything, all his years of training, to bring his vision to life.
A small smile played on his lips. He'd poured his heart and soul into every plate, every sauce.
The phone on the counter rang. His assistant, Marie, answered. He saw her face cloud over. Then, she walked to him and handed him the phone with a small look of worry.
"It's from the newspaper." she said quietly.
"Bonjour," he said into the phone, his voice steady. The voice on the other end began, and he listened, a small nod of his head the only indication of his focus. He could still taste the perfect balance of flavors on his tongue, the textures... the reaction of the diners. He ended the call curtly, placing the phone back on the counter.
He began to whistle a lively tune as he gathered his jacket. He had a long walk ahead of him.
***