Letting Go: Anton Ego

The table looms before him, stark and uninviting,
a battleground where plates meet judgment.
The critic sits rigid, pen gripped in a hand
ready to slash through reputation, its ink dark and merciless.

In the kitchen, the chef glares through the small window,
a low flame of resentment flickering in his eyes.
Every movement is sharp, precise—a rhythm of defiance.

The dish must speak for itself; his words,
in defence of his art, remain locked in his throat.

Anton waits, his gaze heavy and sharp.
Rumours swirled about the chef’s arrogance,
his reckless experiments, his disdain for simplicity.

As the minutes stretch, Anton’s irritation stirs,
already forming in his mind the lines of dismissal:
mediocrity masquerading as daring.

The plate arrives, sliding across the table—
a quiet challenge, its edges smudged imperfectly.
Anton lifts his fork with deliberate scepticism.

The chef stands in the corner, arms crossed,
the weight of failure already braced against his shoulders.

The fork presses into the layers. The critic pauses.
Steam curls up, carrying notes of familiarity.
Tomato tang pierces the air, mingling with the earthiness of aubergine.
Anton takes a bite, his expression unmoving.

Then—his brow furrows, lips twitching slightly.
Flavours bloom on his tongue, chaotic yet harmonious.
The chef looks away, muttering under his breath.
Anton swallows, and silence fills the room, heavy as the unspoken verdict.

His fork clinks against the plate as he sets it down.
The pen quivers in his hand, prepared for destruction—
yet he writes something unexpected.

“This dish,” he begins, “reminds us that elegance thrives in imperfection.”

The chef freezes, disbelief washing over his face.
Anton stands, his unyielding mask softened by the faintest smile,
and walks to the door, leaving his words to linger.