Spice Boys

You can smell it for half a block before you get there. The Spice House store, on Wells Street in Chicago. Once a year Mark makes his visit to this aromatic palace of flavor. This is where he buys those hard to find spices he uses in his many recipes. It is also where he buys the spices that he could get off the grocer’s shelf. The difference being that these are fresh, they haven’t been sitting in a plastic bottle for a year. Of all the shopping trips Mark drags me along on, this is the one I don’t object to. This shopping safari represents future dinners of unbelievable quality.

We step into the store, and the full bouquet of spices slams into my nostrils. Almost immediately an employee comes to Mark’s aide,
“May I help you?”  
“Yes you can.”, replies Mark, and he is off and running.
Curry powder, Mexican oregano, Turkish bay leaves, Mediterranean thyme, peppercorns, and on, and on, until Mark has stacks of little bags in his basket. I make the joke that I used to come down to Wells Street forty years ago for such little baggies, but they didn’t have spices in them. My drug joke falls on deaf ears. For about forty five minutes I wander around the store while the helpful employee continues to fill Mark’s order. I spy the dorky kid who helped Mark last year, and I wonder how could anyone work in that place for that long. Does he not have a sense of smell? When we get home the odor of spices permeates my clothes. I imagine when that guy gets home, even after a week of vacation, the smell of spices is still in his skin.

“I’m done.”, announces Mark, and I am pulled out of my thoughts. I know that Mark isn’t done, that this is only the beginning. The beginning of another year of his fantastic meals, and maybe a few more pounds packed on my ample gut.