Vacation towns are a fantasy world to a certain extent, aren’t they? There’s always an historic center, even when the town is only fifty years old. When I visit a town whose historic center is as old as I am, it’s not a pleasant feeling. I tend to become cynical. “Why look at this ice cream parlor,” I said to my wife as we walked around last week on vacation. “They’ve been serving chocolate mint chip since 1970. Let the Parisians have the Louvre. That can’t compete with Captain Sherbet’s Hot Fudge Wonderland!”
The other interesting fact I’ve noticed about vacation towns is that they tend to attract specialty shops. Beyond the usual tee shirt and souvenir spoon shops, there’s always one or two that strike me as unique. This time it was a spice shop. Not that I haven’t seen spice shops before, but they usually offer more than just an assortment of ground goods that you can purchase at any supermarket. Here, we meandered through a Sahara of seasonings.
What would give someone the idea that this would work, I wondered? Is the souvenir spice industry that big a market? What was he thinking? I know that the average grocery store has every possible combination of spices, herbs, and rubs you could possibly want, but I’m going to take my life’s savings and open a spice only shop right in the heart of downtown. That way, any tourists who have a sudden urge for saffron will have a place to go. Yeah, that’s good. And why would the average townsperson get parsley at one of the big chains, when they can make a special trip downtown, park five blocks away, and buy it here? It makes perfect sense.
His business card read “Kevin Pullman, Spice Agent.” That’ll go over with the ladies, I thought. I could picture him making a move in the spice aisle of the supermarket:
“Excuse me, Miss. I like the way you’re handling that garnish.”
“Uh huh.” She pretends to admire the Italian herbs.
“Allow me to introduce myself.” She plays hard to get. “Pullman.” Pause for effect. “Kevin Pullman. Spice Agent.” She gasps. He reaches into his pocket. “My card.” The deal-sealer.
All heads in the spice aisle turn and nod, impressed. They were in the presence of Double-O Saffron himself, Spice Agent. How could she resist?
Spice Agent – hah! Who does he think he is? I didn’t even see salt and pepper on his shelves, and I was looking for it. Where were the most basic condiments? What if one of the local restaurateurs rushed in in a frenzy one night? I imagined the scene:
A man bursts through the door wearing a tuxedo. “Do you have salt and pepper?” he asks, out of breath.
Pullman’s face is a blank slate. “What?”
“Salt and pepper.”
“Sure.” He moves out from behind the counter. “Right over here. I have lemon-infused salt with-“
“No, no, just plain salt.”
He shifts over to the next display. “How about this shiitake mushroom salt?”
“No, just plain old, every day table salt. Don’t you have any Morton’s?”
“I’ve got a salt rub here that has-“
“No!” The restaurant impresario tries to check his frustration. “Forget the salt. How about pepper?”
“I can grind some pink peppercorn for you.”
“No.”
“I’ve got this spicy herbed garlic pepper rub.”
“No.”
“A coriander ancho chili rub that-.”
“No! No rubs, nothing pink or infused, just plain old salt and pepper! That’s all I want! The most basic of spices! Do you have it or not?”
“No. Sorry.”
Tuxedo rushes out. “I don’t believe this,” he says as he slams the door behind him.
My wife nudged me and I escaped my reverie. “Here’s the salt and pepper,” she said. “Right behind you the whole time.”
So I like to exaggerate – vacation towns do that to me. I’ll take a vodka martini, shaken not stirred, with a dash of maple garlic pepper rub. Join me?
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