The Last Service

The critic's review had been absolute bull, and Marcus knew it. He'd read it six times already, each word a fresh papercut against his pride. 'Derivative,' 'tired,' 'pyramid scheme of pretension.' The vitriol dripped from the screen.

He'd spent twelve years building this place, climbing the pyramid of Chicago's restaurant scene one brutal service at a time. Now, at forty-three, he was supposed to be grateful some twenty-six-year-old with a food blog had deigned to destroy him.

'Chef?'

Marcus turned. Elena stood in the doorway, her chef's whites stained with turmeric and exhaustion. She held out a plastic bottle. 'Your vitamin cocktail. You missed lunch again.'

He took it without meeting her eyes. 'Thanks.'

'You going to tell me what's wrong, or do I have to guess?'

He tossed the tablet onto his desk. 'The Bear review.'

Elena leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. 'The guy who called your risotto 'an insult to Italian grandmothers everywhere'?'

'That's the one.'

'Fuck him.' She said it so casually, like she was commenting on the weather. 'Forty covers tonight. Friday rush. You going to stand here feeling sorry for yourself, or you going to cook?'

Marcus almost smiled. Almost. 'What if he's right, El? What if I'm done?'

She stepped closer, and he saw the lines around her eyes, the gray in her hair she stopped coloring last year. 'You think you're the only one who's tired? You think you're the only one wondering if it's worth it?' She paused. 'My cat died yesterday. Had to put him down after eighteen years. Didn't even tell you because I knew you'd make it about you.'

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unsaid things.

'I'm sorry,' Marcus said finally. 'I didn't know.'

'Now you do.' She touched his shoulder, her fingers strong and scarred from kitchen burns. 'So you can either stay here and let some asshole with a laptop decide if you still have a purpose, or you can come put on your whites and feed people. Your call.'

Marcus looked at the vitamin bottle on his desk, then at the review still glowing on his screen. He thought about the pyramid of hours, the sacrifices, the way his hands moved when he was truly cooking—how the world fell away until there was only the knife, the flame, the perfect moment of creation.

He deleted the browser tab.

'Let's do dinner,' he said.

Elena's mouth curved into something almost like a smile. 'About time.'