Felix Marrow sat in the dim, pretentious dining room of Élan Vital, swirling a glass of overpriced chardonnay with all the enthusiasm of a man stirring a toilet bowl.
He flicked his pen open, scribbled a single word on his notepad:
"Insufferable."
The duck confit before him looked like it had been plated by an over-caffeinated raccoon. He took a tiny bite, grimaced theatrically, and glanced around to make sure the servers saw it. Good. Let them sweat. Let them know.
Felix made his living turning meals into murder scenes. His column, Bitter Taste, was the most feared piece of journalism in the city. One paragraph from him could close a restaurant faster than a rat infestation.
He was halfway through plotting a particularly brutal metaphor (something about "poultry genocide") when the door to the restaurant creaked open.
In shuffled a woman in a moss-green shawl, her hair a bird's nest of silver curls. She looked wildly out of place among the polished marble tables and polished marble people. She walked straight to Felix's table and, without a word, pulled out a chair.
"Sorry," Felix said, not meaning it, "private table."
The woman smiled. Her teeth were... wrong. Too many. Too sharp.
"Felix Marrow," she said. Her voice was papery, like dried leaves crumbling. "You take great pleasure in bitterness."
Felix leaned back, unimpressed. "Lady, unless you're here to offer a better wine list, buzz off."
Her smile widened."So shall it be."
She plucked something from the folds of her shawl—something small, black, and writhing—and flicked it onto his plate.
Felix blinked. The duck confit twitched.The woman vanished.
The restaurant returned to its glossy, soulless normalcy, as if nothing had happened.
Felix shook his head. Probably some publicity stunt. He finished writing his review:
"A pretentious death rattle for a restaurant that deserves extinction."
He smiled to himself, paid the bill with a disdainful grunt, and left.
It wasn't until he got home and microwaved a sad, cheap frozen pizza that he realized something was terribly, terribly wrong.
The first bite hit his tongue—and the agony hit him like a freight train.
Felix dropped the pizza like it was a live grenade, clutching his mouth in pure horror. The pain wasn't just bad—it was existential, like every nerve ending in his body had been hooked up to a car battery.
He staggered around his apartment, knocking over empty wine bottles and stacks of unpaid bills, trying to think through the haze of agony. Had the pizza gone bad? Was he allergic? Poisoned?
Through the throbbing in his skull, a memory flashed—the crone, the writhing thing on his plate, that smile.
"No," Felix croaked. "No way. Magic isn't real. That's—"
His body disagreed. Violently. He collapsed onto the carpet, groaning, the taste of cheap pepperoni still burning like acid in his mouth.
When he woke up hours later, shivering and sore, a single, horrifying conclusion had taken root in his brain:Something had cursed him.
The next day, desperate and starving, Felix tried again. He ordered the best meal he could think of: a luxury steak dinner, from the highest-rated place in the city.
It was... fine. Good, even. But still only four stars by his internal scale.After the first forkful, the pain slammed into him again—less intense this time, but still enough to make him knock over his wineglass and sprawl face-first into his mashed potatoes.
When he came to, he found a message had been burned into the inside of his mind, like a brand:
Only the finest will spare you. Only excellence may pass your lips. You will know the difference. You will suffer if you lie.
Felix didn't cry. Not exactly. Maybe just some aggressively moist blinking.
He sat at his kitchen table, staring at the half-eaten steak like it was an executioner.
And then the worst realisation hit him.
There was exactly one group of people in this city who could cook meals good enough to keep him alive.The same group of people he had personally humiliated, mocked, and run out of business over the years.
Chefs.
Chefs who hated his guts more than salmonella.
Chefs who would rather spit in their food than save his life.
He was going to have to beg them.
Felix buried his head in his hands and let out a long, low groan.
"Karma," he muttered. "You petty little-" the pain hit him again before he could finish his sentence. Groaning in pain, he stumbled out of the restaurant to do the one thing that he had never done before: Beg
Felix stood outside Madame Rousseau's, hands sweating, stomach growling like a wounded bear.He hadn't eaten in almost two days. Every whiff of buttery pastry and simmering broth from the restaurant's kitchen was torture.
Inside, beyond the frosted glass doors, was salvation. Or humiliation. Probably both.
Madame Rousseau was one of the first chefs he had publicly annihilated.He still remembered the headline he wrote, back when he thought cruelty was the height of cleverness:
"Madame Rousseau: Proof That Michelin Stars Can Be Bought and Tasted Like Cardboard."
He could still hear her outraged shriek when the article went live. Rumor was, she'd tried to track him down with a rolling pin.
Now here he was, in yesterday's clothes, reeking of desperation.
He pushed open the door.
The cozy bistro atmosphere hit him like a wall: rich aromas, warm lighting, soft French music.Every head in the restaurant turned to look at him—and not with admiration.
Madame Rousseau herself spotted him from across the room.She was a stout, fiery-eyed woman in a crisp white chef's coat, and when she saw Felix Marrow, her expression hardened like molten lava cooling into stone.
She marched over, heels clicking furiously against the tile.
"You!" she barked in her thick accent. "You have nerve to show your face here!"
Felix tried a smile. It came out more like a grimace.
"Madame Rousseau," he said, voice hoarse. "Listen. I need—"
"You need a lesson in manners," she snapped, jabbing a finger into his chest. "Or perhaps a new tongue. Yours seems broken."
Felix took a shaky breath. His pride tried to rear up, but hunger and pain stamped it back down.
"I'm... here to apologize," he said, each word like pulling teeth. "I was wrong. About your food. About you. I need your help."
Madame Rousseau crossed her arms."And why should I not throw you out on your lying backside, hmm?"
Felix hesitated. Should he tell her the truth? The curse? She'd think he was insane.But his stomach twisted violently, and he knew he didn't have time to play games.
"Because," he said, voice low, "if I don't eat the best food this city has to offer... I die."
The restaurant went dead silent.
A server dropped a tray somewhere in the back.
Madame Rousseau's lips twitched, and for a moment Felix dared to hope she might take pity.
Then she burst out laughing.A deep, full-bellied laugh that left her wiping tears from her eyes.
"You? Begging for my food?" she cackled. "Mon dieu, the world is a funny place!"
She waved a hand toward the door.
"Out. Out! Go suffer elsewhere!"
Felix's legs gave out, but he forced himself upright, every step a battle against the gnawing hunger and the thick, acidic pain creeping up his throat.
As he staggered out onto the street, he realized something horrifying:This was going to be even harder than he thought.
Felix slumped against a lamp post, panting like a man who had run a marathon fueled only by shame.His vision swam. His stomach felt like it was trying to eat itself.
At this rate, he'd be dead before sunset.Or worse—stuck eating gas station sandwiches and experiencing daily magical electrocutions.
He needed a new plan. Fast.
That's when he remembered:There was one chef he hadn't savaged in print yet.Mainly because the kid had only just opened a restaurant a month ago. Some hipster nonsense place downtown—Ember & Ash. Tiny portions. Wood-fired everything. Felix had been planning to review it... before the whole "witch-curse-death-by-mediocrity" situation took over his life.
If the food was good enough, if the kid was desperate enough for publicity...
Felix pushed himself upright and staggered down the street, hoping, praying, bargaining with whatever bitter little gods were laughing at him from above.
Ember & Ash sat wedged between a tattoo parlor and a used bookstore. Its sign was hand-painted, slightly crooked, and the inside smelled of smoke, herbs, and butter.
Felix all but fell through the door.
Behind the counter, a young man with messy hair, inked arms, and a worried expression looked up from plating a dish.
"Uh... sir? You okay?"
Felix straightened, tugging at his rumpled jacket.
"Name's Felix Marrow," he said, forcing authority into his exhausted voice. "I need a table. Now."
The kid's eyes widened. He obviously recognized the name.Felix braced for the usual sneer, the polite we're full tonight excuse.
Instead, the kid swallowed hard and nodded. "Y-yeah, of course! Table for one?"
Felix sank into a seat like a dying man reaching an oasis.
Within minutes, a plate appeared before him:A simple wood-fired trout, charred lemon, roasted fennel, and a drizzle of something green and suspiciously healthy-looking.
Felix stared at it.He took a trembling forkful.
The second the fish touched his tongue, it happened:Relief.
No pain.No agony.Just a warm, golden glow blooming in his chest.
It wasn't just good.It was... alive. Vibrant. Real.
Felix almost wept into his plate.
The kid hovered nervously. "Uh... if it's not to your liking, I can—"
Felix dropped his fork and grabbed the chef's wrist with surprising strength.
"This," he rasped, "is the best thing I have ever eaten."
The kid blinked, stunned. "Thanks...?"
Felix released him and slumped back, breathing hard.
"My name's Callum," the kid said awkwardly. "I'm, uh, the owner. And the head chef. It's kind of a one-man show right now."
Felix wiped his mouth with a trembling hand.
"Callum," he said, "I need you to listen very carefully."
And so, over a second helping of trout and roasted fennel, Felix Marrow—infamous food critic, professional snob, cursed soul—began to explain the absolute madness his life had become.
Callum listened in frozen silence as Felix finished his story.When Felix finally slumped back in his chair, looking about a thousand years old, Callum blinked slowly.
"So," Callum said carefully, "you're cursed... by a witch... to only eat five-star meals... or else you experience horrific magical agony."
Felix nodded solemnly."And unfortunately for me, 'five-star' means actual five-star quality. No pity stars. No Yelp exaggerations. My body knows the truth."
Callum rubbed his temples."This is either the weirdest con I've ever heard... or you are the most desperate man alive."
Felix gestured helplessly at the empty plates around him. "If I could fake it, trust me, I would."
Callum leaned against the counter, staring at him like you might stare at a slightly damp, slightly rabid raccoon.
"And you want... what, exactly?"
"I need you to help me stay alive," Felix said. "Cook for me. Guide me. Help me undo this nightmare."
Callum barked a laugh. "Right. Because what I always wanted was to babysit a cursed food critic who probably ruined half the chefs I look up to."
Felix's expression turned raw. Honest in a way he hadn't been in years."Look, kid. I don't have friends. I don't have favors to call in. You're the only person left who doesn't actively want me dead. Yet."
Callum hesitated. He should kick this lunatic to the curb.He had a business to run. Dreams to chase.
But there was something about Felix Marrow—the bitterness, the cracked arrogance—that made Callum... pity him.And maybe, if he was being honest, there was a tiny part of Callum that was curious.If he could cook for a man cursed to only survive on greatness—and succeed—that would mean something.
Something real.
He sighed and crossed his arms.
"Fine," Callum said. "I'll help you. But there are conditions."
Felix's head snapped up. "Anything."
"One," Callum said, holding up a finger, "you pay for every meal. Premium rates."
Felix winced but nodded.
"Two, you help me in the kitchen. Dishes, prep, whatever. I'm not your personal caterer."
Felix's face twisted like he'd swallowed a lemon but nodded again.
"And three..." Callum grinned mischievously."You tell me everything you know about what makes a dish truly five-star. No more gatekeeping. No more smug critic secrets. I want to learn."
Felix hesitated.For a moment, the old Felix—the smug, untouchable critic—wanted to sneer, to say knowledge like mine can't be taught.
But he was starving. And desperate.And maybe, deep down, a part of him wanted someone to learn. To understand.
He stuck out his hand."Deal."
Callum shook it, grinning like a man who had just adopted a very problematic stray dog.
"Welcome to Ember & Ash, Felix," he said. "Hope you like doing dishes."
Felix groaned.He had a feeling he was about to learn a lot more than he ever wanted to about humility.
The next week was... hell.
Felix Marrow, former king of scathing reviews, was now a kitchen grunt at Ember & Ash.
His hands, once soft from a life of luxury and laziness, were blistered from chopping, scrubbing, and hauling heavy crates of vegetables.His ego, once polished to a mirror shine, was battered by a barrage of sarcastic jabs from Callum.
"Good news!" Callum called from across the kitchen one afternoon. "You've officially peeled your first potato without mangling it into a crime scene!"
Felix grunted, flexing his cramping fingers. "Thrilling. Shall we alert the media?"
Still, beneath the exhaustion and humiliation, something strange was happening.For the first time in his life, Felix was listening.
Listening to how Callum spoke to the ingredients—like they were partners, not tools.Listening to how fire, smoke, salt, and patience could transform simple food into something alive.
And, against all odds, Felix was starting to respect it.
But peace, like good soufflés, never lasted long.
One evening, as Felix scrubbed a monstrous stack of pots, the restaurant door slammed open so hard the windows rattled.
A woman stormed in—a towering figure in chef whites, her short-cropped hair bristling like a porcupine.
Felix froze, heart plummeting into his shoes.
It was Chef Elena Voss.The Iron Empress herself.The culinary juggernaut he had once described in print as:
"A dictator with a whisk, ruling over a flavorless wasteland."
Chef Voss's dark eyes locked onto him like a heat-seeking missile.
"You," she said, her voice low and lethal.
Callum, blissfully unaware, popped out from the kitchen with a smile."Hey! Welcome to Ember & Ash! Table for—"
"No," Voss growled, without looking away from Felix. "I'm here for him."
Felix straightened, trying to summon his old armor of sarcasm.It clattered uselessly to the floor inside him.
"Chef Voss," he said, aiming for polite but landing somewhere around terrified wheeze.
"You have five minutes," she said. "Outside. Or I come in there and drag you out myself."
Without waiting for an answer, she turned and stalked back out onto the street.
Callum stared at him. "Dude. What did you do?"
Felix peeled off his apron like a condemned man removing his last worldly possession.
"I... may have compared her risotto to prison food once," he mumbled.
Callum let out a strangled laugh."Good luck, buddy."
Felix trudged toward the door, every step heavier than the last.
This wasn't going to be a conversation.
It was going to be an execution.
The alley behind Ember & Ash was bathed in the sickly glow of a flickering streetlight.Felix stepped outside and found Chef Elena Voss standing there, arms crossed, posture radiating pure murder.
For a moment, they just stared at each other, the way gladiators might before the first swing.
"I thought," Voss said, voice like a blade, "that if I ever saw you again, I'd plant your face in a hot griddle."
Felix swallowed hard. "Charming."
"But," she continued, stalking toward him, "lately I've been hearing... rumors."She circled him slowly, like a shark sniffing blood."Rumors that the great Felix Marrow has fallen so low he's scrubbing floors. Washing dishes. Begging."
Felix didn't answer. He didn't have to.
The grease on his clothes, the circles under his eyes—they spoke louder than anything he could say.
Voss stopped in front of him, her face inches from his.
"So here's how this goes," she said. "You're going to eat something I made. Right now. No fancy silverware, no restaurant stage show. Just you, me, and the truth."
Felix's stomach twisted. He knew the risk: if her food wasn't good enough—truly five-star good—the curse would light him up like a Christmas tree.
But something in Voss's eyes told him refusing wasn't an option.
She pulled a battered tin lunchbox from under her coat and popped it open. Inside was a small, steaming container of something rich, dark, and aromatic.
"Braised beef cheek," she said. "Barley risotto. Pickled onions."
Felix's mouth watered against his will.
Voss thrust a battered plastic fork at him.
"Eat," she commanded.
He took the container with shaking hands. Dug in.
The first bite exploded across his tongue: deep, complex, shimmering with layers of flavor that danced together like a symphony.He waited—braced—for the curse's punishment.
Nothing.
No pain.No fire.Just warmth. And awe.
He looked up at her, stunned.
"It's..." he croaked, voice catching. "It's... magnificent."
Voss narrowed her eyes, searching his face for any trace of mockery.Finding none, she let out a short, barking laugh.
"Well," she said, "looks like even you can recognize greatness when it kicks you in the teeth."
Felix wiped his mouth, shame and gratitude warring inside him.
"I was wrong about you," he said, hoarse.
"Of course you were," Voss said briskly. "You were a spoiled little parasite who thought cleverness was the same as wisdom."
Felix winced. Fair enough.
"But," she said, her tone softening just a hair, "you're not the same idiot who wrote that review.You're a new idiot.A better one."
And before Felix could reply, she jabbed a finger in his chest.
"I'm not forgiving you. Not yet. But if you keep working... if you keep learning... maybe one day you'll earn the right to."
She turned on her heel and disappeared into the night, leaving Felix standing alone under the sputtering streetlamp.
And for the first time in a long time, Felix felt something in his chest that wasn't bitterness or fear.
It was... hope.Sharp. Bright. Terrifying.
But real.
Felix stumbled back into Ember & Ash, cheeks flushed, heart pounding like he'd just outrun a freight train.
Callum looked up from wiping down tables."Well?" he asked. "You dead? Or just emotionally scarred?"
Felix dropped into a chair with a grunt."She didn't kill me."
Callum raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like you're disappointed."
Felix gave a dry chuckle. "Honestly? I think it would've been quicker."
He rubbed his hands together, still feeling the ghost of Chef Voss's jab in his chest.
"She said... I'm different now," Felix muttered."Not better, mind you. Just... less of a walking disaster."
Callum tossed him a bottle of water.
"Well, she's right," he said. "Sort of. You don't sneer half as much anymore. Progress."
Felix rolled his eyes but smiled despite himself.
For the first time in weeks, he wasn't just surviving.He was changing.
And then, like a spark lighting dry kindling, a thought hit him:
"What if... that's the point?"
Callum frowned. "What is?"
Felix leaned forward, eyes bright for the first time in what felt like forever.
"The curse. It's not just about eating five-star meals. It's about becoming someone who deserves them.Someone who understands what goes into real greatness.Not just judging from the outside, but... living it. Working for it."
Callum tilted his head, intrigued.
"You think the curse breaks when you stop being a jackass?"
Felix grinned crookedly."Roughly, yes."
Callum snorted. "So... you're on a redemption arc."
Felix waggled his eyebrows. "With excellent catering."
They both laughed—a real, hearty laugh that filled the tiny restaurant with something lighter than air: friendship.
Maybe even trust.
Felix leaned back, feeling a strange new kind of hunger stirring in him—not just for food, but for something he had never tasted before.
A second chance.