Steam rises, curling over the edge of porcelain.
The maître d\' shifts his weight, a polished smile,
gestures toward the plate—
a delicacy, a masterpiece, a moment of triumph.
The chef, sleeves rolled, eyes sharp,
flicks his wrist, thumb and fingers poised—
a chef\'s kiss, a silent benediction.
Mr Creosote leans forward, belly a continent,
hands trembling for conquest.
A fork crashes through crème and crisp.
Chewing, swallowing, expanding—
his breath thickens, his eyes roll,
his body, unwilling, groans in protest.
The maître d’ steps back. The air shifts.
A whisper of tension—
something inevitable, irreversible,
a gluttonous sun pulling everything into its orbit.
Then, a pause, a flicker of realisation.
The chef, still watching, mouth twitching at the corner,
wipes his hands on his apron, steps away from the blast zone.