“Thank y—”
“I, however, hold myself in much higher regard.”
“What—”
“The fois gras was too salty,” he says, launching straight into it. “The wine your waiter suggested was abysmal. A red wine with fish? I recommend your waitstaff undergo sommelier training.”
Alexander simply nods, because what else is he supposed to do? He doesn’t understand why Palton’s just now bringing up these issues. Alexander could have had everything remedied at the drop of the hat.
No, he knows why Palton’s doing this. The dickhead is trying to throw him off, rile him up. It’s a power trip that Palton very clearly enjoys. It makes Alexander wonder what kind of sad, miserable life the man leads behind closed doors. If terrifying chefs is the only way he can get his rocks off, the poor bastard must be a pitiful thing.
Palton continues his little spiel. “Your escargot was much too oily. Your lobster was under-seasoned. Will dessert be just as disappointing, I wonder?”
Alexander places the plate down on the table. He’s tempted to throw it right at the old man’s face, but that’s a one-way ticket to a ruinous review. He knows Eden and the others are only a few feet away, waiting with bated breath. He can’t possibly let his temper get to him now.
That doesn’t stop him from imagining it, though.
Palton picks up a clean spoon and makes a show of polishing it with his cloth napkin. Alexander knows for a fact that the silverware is spotless, polished twice specifically for the critic’s arrival. Everything this man is doing is bullshit. Everything he’s said is bullshit. There is nothing wrong with the food. They’re works of art. Alexander wouldn’t have sent them out otherwise.
Palton finally takes a bite of dessert. There’s no considerable reaction. No twitch of the brow or purse of the lips. If Alexander thought Sebastian was hard to read, Palton is twice as hard to discern—plus three times as much of a douchebag.
“How is it?” Alexander asks.
“Passable.”
Fuck it. At this point, Alexander’s willing to take whatever barely-there-compliment he can get, just so the man will finally shut up and get the hell out of his restaurant.
Palton finishes off dessert—which Alexander takes as a good sign—before dabbing his lips delicately with the corner of his napkin. He extends a hand, gesturing to the seat opposite him. “Please.”
“I’d rather stand. But thank you.”
Palton gives Alexander a once over and smirks. “Sebastian was right about you.”
“Right about what?”
He rises, adjusting his cravat. “That you’re losing your touch. Maybe you should stick to cooking yourownpeople’s food.”
Alexander clenches his fists, fighting the urge to implode. If sending Palton here was some kind of ploy by Sebastian to send him into a tailspin, it’s on the verge of working. Sebastian didn’t have to send a food critic to tell him his performance as of late was less than impressive. Alexander’s reflective enough to recognize his own dissatisfaction. No, this is just Sebastian’s way of adding salt to an already festering wound—one that Alexander’s been trying to ignore for ages.
He doesn’t love food anymore.
His passion is gone.
All of the pomp and circumstance, the hoity-toity clientele, the high expectations, the boss constantly breathing down his neck, the predictability of it all, the boring day in and day out, the constant complaints and need to micromanage and dealing with shitty employees and not getting enough sleep and—
He wants to quit.
But if he does, what else is he supposed to do? He’s lost if he’s not cooking. Food has been such an integral part of his life that giving it up would leave him lost.
Palton nods respectfully. “You have yourself a good evening, chef. I hope you look forward to my review.”
He leaves without another word, abandoning Alexander to stew in his own silence. He wanders back to the kitchen in a trance-like state, on autopilot.
“How did it go?” Eden asks when he finally pushes through the double doors.
His chest constricts, the trapped air in his throat burning a hole through him. Everyone’s staring at him, expectant. His shoulders are heavy and his head aches. Worst of all, Eden looks so damn hopeful that he can’t bear to tell her the truth.
He just can’t.
