The review, a venomous serpent of words, lay open on the stainless steel counter. Chef Antoine ran a hand over his freshly shaven head, the smooth skin a stark contrast to the churning in his gut. He hadn't slept well since the article’s publication; each blink felt like a missed heartbeat. The restaurant, once a vibrant hub, now felt suffocatingly empty. He caught his reflection in the pass-through window – a gaunt face staring back, the usual spark extinguished.
He checked the reservation book again, his fingers tracing the names. A scattering of cancellations. He'd poured his heart into every dish, every sauce, every garnish. Now, it all seemed to be ashes. He grabbed a damp towel, scrubbing the counter with unnecessary vigor, as if trying to erase the ghost of the critic's judgment.
His sous chef, Marco, a usually boisterous man, entered the kitchen cautiously. "Antoine, are you… alright?"
Antoine forced a smile. "Fine, Marco. Just… fine." His voice sounded thin, even to his own ears. He turned back to the counter, finding solace only in the familiar routines of his trade. The hiss of the gas burners, the rhythmic chop of a knife – these were the only things that felt real.