Gemotions

Chef Antoine stared at the review, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm against the pristine white tablecloth. The critic had eviscerated his signature dish, the Coquilles Saint-Jacques. "Anemic," the review declared, "lacking the vibrant soul of the sea." His stomach churned. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple. The restaurant, usually bustling, was quiet tonight. He pushed his chair back, the scrape against the polished floor loud in the suddenly empty space. He could feel the eyes of the staff on him.

He went into the kitchen. The stainless steel reflected his own troubled expression. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, then grabbed a dish towel and began furiously wiping down the already spotless countertop.

He yelled at the line cooks, nitpicking details that had never bothered him before. The garlic was too coarsely chopped; the parsley not finely enough minced. He could taste the bitterness of the review on his own tongue.

He looked at his reflection in the polished steel of the walk-in refrigerator. He looked like a fraud, a man who had somehow convinced everyone he was a master, but was just a pretender.