Chapter 1

Carson

I swirl the 1982 Château Lafite Rothschild in my crystal glass, but the $4,000 bottle brings no comfort tonight. The review lies on my mahogany dining table, its words burning through the paper of the San Francisco Chronicle.

"The Glass Table shatters expectations - and not in a good way. While Chef Carson Foxe's reputation precedes him, his latest menu reads like a desperate attempt to stay relevant in an evolving culinary landscape."

I slam the glass down. Red wine sloshes over the rim, staining the white tablecloth. Fuck. That's going to be a bitch to get out.

"His deconstructed coq au vin resembles a crime scene rather than fine dining, with elements scattered across the plate in what can only be described as culinary chaos."

My fingers crumple the paper's edge. Who the hell does this Kate Thomas think she is? Some fresh-faced critic who probably learned about food from watching cooking shows on Netflix.

"The service, while impeccable, cannot salvage a menu that has lost its soul. Chef Foxe seems more concerned with shocking his diners than feeding them."

I push back from the table, my chair scraping against Italian marble. The sound echoes through my empty dining room. Lost its soul? I've spent thirty fucking years perfecting my craft. Three Michelin stars. James Beard awards lining my walls. And this... this critic dares to question my passion?

The review continues, each paragraph more cutting than the last. But something in her words - the precise way she dissects each dish, her understanding of classical techniques - catches my attention. She's not just another hack with a laptop and an opinion.

I grab my phone, pulling up her photo on the Chronicle's website. Kate Thomas, 26 years old. A Black woman who lives here in the Bay Area. Dark curls frame a face that's too young to have this much authority. But those eyes... They hold something. Knowledge. Experience. Pain.

Returning to the table, I scan the review again, those words jumping off the page: "Outdated and out of touch." The phrase follows me as I stalk through my home kitchen, pristine Sub-Zero appliances gleaming under recessed lighting.

My steps echo against the floor. Back and forth. Back and forth. The wine sloshes in my glass with each turn.

"Out of touch?" I mutter, running my free hand through my hair. "I introduced molecular gastronomy to the West Coast before it was a fucking buzzword. Half these so-called innovators were still learning to boil pasta when I was deconstructing classic French cuisine."

But when was the last time I changed the menu? Really changed it? Not just switching seasonal ingredients or rearranging presentations. Not just tweaking the same dishes I've been serving for years.

I take another drink, longer this time. Thinking. Reflecting.

My kitchen island stretches before me, a stark expanse of marble. I have to remind myself that I'm at home, not in the immaculate kitchen at The Glass Table. No prep work. No sounds of knives against cutting boards. No orders being called. Just silence and these goddamn thoughts. At the restaurant, the space would be alive with energy, purpose. Here at home, it's just another reminder of how far I am from where I need to be.

My eyes gaze back towards the review. It taunts me.

"Elements scattered across the plate in culinary chaos," I quote, my voice harsh in the empty space. Is that what my food has become? Just shock value wrapped in a $300 price tag?

The last drops of wine disappear. I set the glass down harder than necessary, the crystal ringing against marble. When did I start playing it safe? When did I stop pushing boundaries and start relying on reputation?

The truth burns worse than cheap scotch: I can't remember the last time I created something truly new. Something that made my hands shake with excitement. Something that kept me up at night, mind racing with possibilities.

Kate Thomas saw right through the emperor's new clothes. And fuck if that doesn't terrify me.

The empty kitchen reminds me of Juniper. She'd lean against that counter, dark hair wild from running her fingers through it while she thought, challenging every recipe I created.

"But why, Carson? Why serve it that way when you could flip the whole thing on its head?"

My fingers trace the cool marble where she used to sit. June never let me rest on my laurels. Even after earning my first Michelin star, she pushed me to experiment, to break rules, to find new combinations that shouldn't work but did.

"Play with it," she'd say, stealing bites from my prep work. "Food should make people feel something. Make them think. Make them reconsider everything they ever thought about food."

The night I earned my third star, we danced in this kitchen. June spun under the lights, her laugh echoing off these same walls. She grabbed ingredients at random, challenging me to create something new right then and there. We stayed up until dawn, the counter covered in dishes that would later become signatures at The Glass Table.

Now the kitchen feels too pristine. Too quiet. Eight years since cancer took her, and I still catch myself turning to share ideas with empty air. Ryan hasn't set foot in here in a very long time. Can't blame him - every surface holds memories of his mother.

I reach for the bottle, but stop myself. June would hate seeing me like this, letting some review send me into a tailspin. She'd already be brainstorming ways to prove this Kate Thomas wrong. Hell, she'd probably invite the critic over just to debate technique and flavors until sunrise.

"You're getting comfortable," she told me during her last weeks. "Promise me you won't stop pushing boundaries when I'm gone."

But I did stop. Somewhere between losing her and throwing myself into work, I forgot how to take risks. Started playing it safe. Started believing my own press.

The review sits on the counter, June's voice mixing with Kate Thomas's words. They're both right. I've lost my edge.

I pull up the Chronicle's website on my phone, scrolling until I find the editorial department's number. My finger hovers over the digits. What am I doing? This isn't like me. I've weathered bad reviews before without hunting down critics.

But something about her words cuts deeper than any review ever has. She sees right through the smoke and mirrors to what I've become - predictable, safe, boring. Everything June would have hated. Makes me sick to even think I've stooped this low.

I dial before I can talk myself out of it. The phone rings three times, each one making my pulse kick harder against my throat. What the fuck am I doing?

"San Francisco Chronicle, Editorial Department. This is Mark speaking."

"Mark. Carson Foxe here." I keep my voice even, professional, though my fingers tighten around the phone. "I'm calling about Kate Thomas's recent review of The Glass Table."

A pause. "Chef Foxe. I... wasn't expecting-" The tremor in his voice says it all. Critics and chefs aren't supposed to interact like this. It's an unspoken rule.

"No need for concern. I'd like to reach out to Ms. Thomas personally. Invite her back to the restaurant. Show her what we're really capable of." The words come out smooth, practiced, like I'm not breaking every protocol in the industry.

"That's..." Another pause. Longer this time, loaded with uncertainty. "Unusual."

I lean against my kitchen counter. "I appreciate honest criticism, Mark. Ms. Thomas made some valid points. I'd like the opportunity to demonstrate that The Glass Table can evolve."

"Well..." Papers shuffle in the background. "Normally we don't give out our critics' contact information."

"I understand the policy." I drum my fingers against marble. "But I'm not looking to argue or intimidate. I want to prove her wrong the right way - with my food."

A long silence follows. Then, he shuffles his papers again on the other line. "You know what? Kate might actually appreciate this. She's not one to back down from a challenge." More shuffling. "I can give you her work email. Just... keep it professional?"

"You have my word."

He recites the address, which I jot down on the back of her review.

"Thank you, Mark. I appreciate your help."

"Chef Foxe?"

"Yes?"

"Whatever you're planning... make it good. Kate's one of our best."

"I'm counting on that," I say, and end the call.