Gemotions

A tremor ran through David’s hands as he stared at the menu. “Chef Pierre’s Secret Chili.” It wasn't secret; it was his, passed down from his grandfather. The restaurant, "Le Fleur," sparkled with pretentious elegance, a far cry from the cramped diner he’d inherited. A wave of heat washed over him, a pressure building behind his eyes.

He’d spent years perfecting the recipe, the right blend of spices, the slow simmer that coaxed the flavors to sing. Now, some culinary snob was taking the credit. He pushed away his half-eaten burger, the taste of the beef suddenly metallic on his tongue. He wanted to shout. To dismantle the place.

He gripped the counter, feeling the cool marble beneath his palms. He paid, leaving a single, crumpled dollar bill as a tip. As he walked out, he imagined the look on Chef Pierre's face when he realized the "secret" was out.