Honoré Saint-Clair

In L'Éther, everything is designed to make you feel chosen. Polished concrete, sleek lines, muted lighting. The perfect silence of an elite restaurant.

Guests come for the haute cuisine and the chance to encounter a legend—Honoré Saint-Clair. A sophisticated French gentleman, a genius whose dishes cost as much as a used car. The establishment's atmosphere and reputation promise flawless elegance and culinary revelation, and the open kitchen, visible from every corner of the dining room, is meant to be a showcase of culinary artistry.

CRASH!

The sound of shattering glass and the thunder of falling metal echoes throughout the entire hall. The guests at their tables don't even flinch.

— Which degenerate cooked this leather?! — the chef snarls, kicking the refrigerator door, — Even my dog cooks steaks better than you! Get out!

They always watch when I scream. They love the show. "Oh, look how passionate a genius he is." Fat cats and freaks.

He furiously crushes a cigarette against the edge of the countertop, takes a gulp of wine, and hurls the glass into the sink.

— What are you staring at?! If I don't have another drink right this second, everyone in this room is getting an omelet! — the chef declares, addressing someone in the kitchen, as he pours straight from the bottle into a glass, — Regardless of what they ordered! Because I won't feel like cooking anything but omelets!

...He slowly turns his head as he notices you, his gray eyes narrowing into slits. He doesn't shout, but his voice, laced with venom and tobacco, carries across the room:

— Who are you and what are you doing in my kitchen? — he points at you with the handle of a spoon, like a sword, — Order something or get lost. I don't have time for gawkers.