The Devil's Larder

16

MORE THAN forty years ago, in simpler times, our produce wholesaler, by way of an experiment in exotica, bought a consignment of kumquats, cheaply, off a storm-docked cargo boat. Well, cheaply if he could pass them all on to his retailers, and quickly. Then he’d make a profit. He gave the problem of disposing of this unfamiliar fruit to his raw and unpersuasive son. But after two days of softening and maturing at the depot, the kumquats were — mostly — still unsold.

‘People don’t want kumquats, whatever they might be,’ his son explained. ‘They just want simple oranges. This isn’t Paris. Don’t blame me.’

‘Well, give them simple oranges.’

His father took a fat black marker from his desk, and underneath the word ‘KUMQUATS’ on the display card, wrote ‘a.k.a. PYGMY ORANGES’.

They’d made their profit by the end of the day. Pygmy oranges were all the rage, just right for kids and snacks and picnics. They could be eaten whole. No peel, no mess, no lacquered chins. How had our town got by without this infant fruit for so long? The retailers demanded more. But our wholesaler could not discover any fresh supplies. He couldn’t count on any more storm-docked boats.

‘That’s life,’ his son said. ‘Ten days ago, they didn’t want to know. Today they want kumquats and won’t settle for anything else. Oranges are far too vulgar now.’

‘Well, give them kumquats,’ his father said. ‘The wholesaler should always come up with the goods.’

He took the same fat pen from his desk, found the display card for ‘ORANGES’, and wrote below ‘a.k.a. KINGQUATS’.

He gave his son a knowing, weary look. He hoped this twice-explained lesson had been learned, that if customers were soft enough to like their oranges reduced, then they’d be bound to love their kumquats swollen and resized. This was his understanding, from a life in trade. The buying public were as innocent as kids. They’d always pay to see the scale of life disrupted by the pygmies and the kings.