The Restaurant Cooks’ Competition held in Lankaran, Azerbaijan was fast approaching. Anar, owner and sole cook of Shahi, a small eatery on a quiet twist of road, was preparing. Düshbara was repeatedly crafted and tweaked. Fingers cramped and grew weary, but never faltered while folding the small, delicate dough around the even smaller rounds of meat. The soup always ended up tasting wonderful, but Anar knew in his heart (and his stomach) that there had to be one ingredient to make it brilliant.

One day, after his usual busy hour, Anar stepped out of Shahi for fresh air. Out front he met the neighboring restaurant’s owner, İlham. They exchanged greetings then stood in silence. Finally Anar spoke up.

“Will you be at the Cooks’ Competition next week, İlham?”

İlham smiled and nodded.

“As will I,” Anar said. “What will you prepare?”

With arms crossed, İlham responded with one word: KEBAB.

Anar almost laughed, but only a soft chuckle slipped through. “Everyone makes kebab and it never wins. After eating them four times, the judge loses interest because they start to taste the same!”

İlham displayed a self-assured smile. “These will win.”

Nothing else was said and İlham went back into his respective kitchen. Anar stayed out a while longer, daydreaming about winning. A low buzzing interrupted his dreams. It was a small bee inspecting the flowers Anar had never minded right outside his door. He watched it for a long time, assuming it must be the most delicious meal that bee had ever tasted because it didn’t even fly away when Anar bent down to pluck two unoccupied flowers.

The flowers were crushed and added to a new batch of meat. Düshbara was prepared yet again. Once complete, Anar poked his head out of the kitchen to make sure no customers were waiting. The dining room was clear, so he hurried back to the pot on the stove. He quickly dipped the spoon into the soup then held it to his lips to blow the steam away. Eyes closed, he took a test bite.

His eyes popped open. At last! The missing ingredient was found! He could barely contain himself. He spooned more soup and rushed outside, stopping a young pedestrian to try it. Their eyes popped too, and Anar knew he had created a winning entrée.

The time of the competition arrived. Anar tried to stay calm during the train ride to Lankaran, but the butterflies never left his stomach. He couldn’t stop thinking he had the winning recipe, but İlham’s cocky smile made him doubt himself. It wasn’t until Anar was at his stove preparing broth that he made a decision: He would win in honor of his late father who had taught him how to be a culinary artist. He vowed in the name of his father to give up his restaurant if he didn’t win. With this, his full confidence returned and even the sight of İlham two rows away didn’t shake him.

The judging began and Anar was pleased to see İlham’s row was the starting point, making his own row last. The Düshbara would be eaten second to last, and the final judgment would be the fourth kebab in the competition. Anar pictured the judge loving his soup so much that they’d only take a nibble of the last entry as to not lose the flavor of the soup’s majesty.

Finally, the judge stopped in front of the Düshbara. Anar waited with bated breath. Like the other entries, the judge made no reaction, just took a bite, made a note on their clipboard, and moved on.

The judge moving on cleared the way for Anar to smile at İlham. His competition smiled back smuggly. Not only was İlham not going to win because he brought kebab, but he also was not going to win due to his smugness. Surely this had been off-putting when the judge stopped at his table.

It didn’t take long for the judge to place the ribbons. Third place went to the table in front of Anar – Lavangi. Second went to an elderly gentleman in the front row – Pumpkin plov. The judge made eye contact with Anar and made his way to the back row. Anar’s heart skipped a beat.

But the judge walked past the row of tables and disappeared behind the hall door. They then returned with a trophy and an envelope of prize money. Anar’s eyes glittered.

The judge caught his eyes again and returned a smile, but something peculiar happened:

The judge walked past Anar.

Anar stood staring at the back wall in shock. Clapping brought him back to his senses and he turned around just in time to see the awards being handed to İlham.

Anar didn’t congratulate anybody. Didn’t even take his supplies. He got on the next train back to his restaurant and pulled the remaining flowers from the ground to stomp them in the street.

The lights inside Shahi were turned off and the door was locked for the last time.