Revenge Is Best Served Hot

My name was Zachary Leeds, the owner of The Hungry Pocket. My business was set up next to a construction site.

Three years ago, I quit my job at a big company and used up all my savings to open this budget restaurant right next to the city's largest construction site.

The specialty here was a ten-dollar meal deal, tailored for workers on site.

For just ten dollars, workers could enjoy a hearty plate of meatloaf or fried chicken, with unlimited sides of mashed potatoes, corn, and cornbread. In winter, we served free hot soup; in summer, we gave out free iced lemonade.

It wasn't gourmet food, but it was healthy, hearty, and affordable, which was exactly what blue-collar workers needed.

I priced it low just to cover the costs and keep the place running.

In fact, I never intended to make a big profit. After all, my father had spent his life working on construction sites.

Poor nutrition there gave him stomach cancer, and he passed away before turning 60. I didn't want other workers to suffer the same fate, so I used my savings to open this restaurant near the site.

I thought I was helping workers like my father.

That was, until Yves showed up.

In the second week of his summer job, Yves started stirring up trouble, claiming that the food had too much sodium and that the restaurant's hygiene was inadequate.

"Hey, guys! There's no one here to help out! The owner does everything by himself, including cooking, serving, and cashiering. How can the food be hygienic? I snuck into the kitchen, and the oil was black. He's obviously using cheap gutter oil!"

He continued, "Besides, why is the sodium content so high? It's because this heartless businessman wants to make more money. He's making his food so salty that we have no choice but to buy his overpriced drinks!"

Then he said, "He's taking advantage of you guys, thinking you're all too uneducated to know better. We need to make sure he faces the consequences!"

I would never forget the way he strutted over so smugly when he came to "negotiate" with me.

"Mr. Leeds, when you've done something wrong, you must face the music. Let me explain the Food Safety Law to you."

Under his initiative, a petition accusing my business of failing to meet food safety standards was created.

One of the signatures on the petition belonged to Steve Miles, a worker whose child I had once helped with medical bills.

Tanya Hertz, who had stayed in the restaurant's back room with her daughter, Carrie Hunt, for free for a year and a half because they had no money for rent, also eagerly signed the petition.

The kids' meals I had carefully prepared for all of the workers' children had now become the cause of her daughter's "severe stomachache".

To them, I was no longer a person trying to help but just a greedy businessman out to exploit them.

They turned the tables on me, and I didn't even have the chance to explain myself.

The fine of 500 thousand dollars, plus the 300-dollar compensation I was to pay to each customer, was enough to bankrupt me.

My small, humble restaurant, once the pride of my life, had become the very thing that pulled me into the depths of despair.

I stood in front of the restaurant, my eyes locked on the big closure sign on the door.

The potted plant by the entrance was a gift Steve had personally bought and placed there when we celebrated the restaurant's first anniversary.

It still had a good luck charm hanging from it, something he had gotten for me as a gift when he and his son climbed a mountain to seek good fortune.

Back then, he had a big, goofy smile on his face, full of gratitude for how I had helped his son.