Gemotions

Chef Antoine smoothed his apron, the starched fabric crisp against his chest. He’d known, of course. He’d *felt* it in the air, the way the kitchen staff scurried, the way the diners raved. The Michelin inspector had all but winked as he paid the bill. He poured himself a generous glass of the vintage Burgundy, the ruby liquid catching the light, and took a slow, deliberate sip. The review, a scathing demolition of his carefully crafted tasting menu, lay open on the polished mahogany table, but it was just so much paper to him.

"Ridiculous," he murmured, his lips curving upward as he ran a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair. He savored the silence for a moment, the quiet hum of his magnificent, newly renovated restaurant the perfect counterpoint to the critic’s petty scribblings.

The only people whose opinion mattered were those who knew food. He rose and strolled into the dining room, nodding regally at the few remaining guests. Their smiles, their compliments, were the real verdict. He'd show that hack. He definitely would.