Gemotions

The review, a dagger of acid ink, sat on Chef Antoine’s spotless counter. "A culinary wasteland," the critic had sneered. His hands, usually deft, trembled as he folded the paper, the flimsy feel a stark contrast to the thick weight of the anger coiling in his gut. He slammed his fist on the counter, the force rattling the pristine spice jars. "Waste land, is it?" he muttered, his voice a low growl. He grabbed his coat, a predatory gleam in his eyes. Tonight, the critic would dine. Again.