In a kitchen hidden between Olympus and a Toulousian bistro, a chef grew tired of serving everyone but herself.

One night, she looked at her twin — equal parts rival and reflection — and said, “Ce soir, c’est moi le plat principal.”

With a gleaming knife and perfect posture, she sliced off a delicate piece from the other’s bottom, not out of cruelty, but curiosity.
The meat sizzled with butter and ancestral pride. She chewed slowly. It tasted like truth.

From that moment on, the gods stopped laughing.

She wasn’t feeding others anymore.
She was reclaiming the Self — one perfect bite at a time.