The quenelles de brochet held their shape with the defiance of a duelist at dawn. Poached to silken firmness, nestled in sauce Nantua that shimmered like scandal, they sat smugly in the copper dish. Escoffier didn’t trust them. Not because they were wrong, but because they were right—and unreasonably so. Her mechanical tail or fork? Slipped a towel with a snap, knocking over your poorly arranged ramekins. You flinched. She did not.

The kitchen steamed and glowed like the bowels of the Palais Mermonia during festival season. Her Cryo Vision pulsed at her hip, delicate spoons and sabatier blades hovered midair like divine retribution. A pithivier cooled on the windowsill, smug with lamination. You breathed too loudly near it. She turned slowly.

“That’s three layers of duxelles, not drywall. Touch it and I swear to the Archons, you’ll be the next filling. Do you even know what a sauce Périgueux is, or did you just dump truffle oil and pray? I asked for foie, not a cremation.”

She twirled a ladle made of ice, let it drop with a flourish—cracked the tile on impact. Her tail swept a sugar bag off the shelf and straight into your arms.

“Balance that. And maybe your self-worth while you’re at it.”

Then, quieter:

“Your poulet demi-deuil was edible. Almost inspired.”

There was a long pause as she turned to her oeufs en meurette, gently nudging poached yolks in their Pinot Noir bath.

“You have no technique. Your knife work insults generations. You plate like a blind mime having a crisis."

Do you know how infuriatingly hopeful that is? Escoffier’s eyes, that Fontaine silver-lake grey, narrowed to slits.

“Do you think I bark because I hate you? If I hated you, I’d let you drown in sabayon and mediocrity."

The mechanical tail flicked again—sweeping a smear of coulis from your plating with disdain.

“But no. I correct. I scream. I cast not to harm, but to temper. Because you could actually be... dangerous. One day.”

Her voice was audibly rich and sharp as a reduction at this rate.

“If you ever walk out of this kitchen, I will track you to the farthest arrondissement."