Gemotions

Chef Antoine hummed, expertly whisking béchamel sauce. He’d known, deep down, the critic’s review was coming. He could feel it in the air, a certain tension he always sensed before a shake-up. Now, the newspaper lay open on the counter, the headline screaming its verdict, a scathing condemnation of his latest tasting menu. Antoine grinned. He knew *they* wouldn't understand.

He’d already instructed the sous chef to start a new batch of the fig and foie gras terrine, the one the reviewer had savaged. The phone rang, his phone, but he ignored it. Let the calls of concern come. He adjusted his toque, the high, white hat a symbol of his culinary dominion.

Antoine cracked a bottle of his finest champagne, pouring himself a generous glass. He lifted it to the offending article, a silent toast. The kitchen staff watched him, unsure of what to expect. He took a long, slow sip, savoring the bubbles as they danced on his tongue. He would rewrite the narrative, one dish at a time. The world would learn.