Gemotions

The review sat on the kitchen counter, a pristine white rectangle of pure venom. Chef Antoine stared at it, the words blurring through a sudden film over his eyes. His stomach twisted, a cold knot forming in the pit of it. He’d poured his soul into the new tasting menu, months of meticulous planning, sourcing, and endless test runs. Now, “lacking inspiration” and “overly ambitious, yet ultimately flavorless,” were the judgements that would likely drive away customers.

He slammed his fist on the counter, the force making the ceramic dishes rattle in the overhead cabinets. The usual morning bustle of the kitchen was starting, but he barely registered the sounds. The rhythmic clang of pots and pans, the rapid-fire chatter, the frantic energy that usually energized him, now felt like a cruel mockery of his efforts. He wanted to scream.

Antoine grabbed his coat, shoving his arms into the sleeves with jerky movements. He needed air. He needed to be anywhere but here.