I was waiting my turn at a shop selling nuts and dried fruits. In front of me stood an elderly couple, the woman taking a series of cumbersome orders, while the man watched with a stomach full of restrained annoyance.
The woman, a blushing wad of cyclamen-pink lips under a helpless glance, asked for an ounce of dates. “An ounce?” said the girl behind the counter. ‘That’s only about four…’, but the woman nodded and said: ‘That’s enough, you know. I only eat one a day. And Bert doesn’t like it.’ With a somewhat frightened look at her husband: ‘Huh, Bert?’
“Certainly not,” the man barked, his mouth contorted as if he were already tasting those filthy dates. “And then I wanted some dried apricots,” the woman continued. ‘For the grandchildren. That’s better than candy, huh? An ounce is very little… But half a pound is a bit much, perhaps. Two ounces? Or no, otherwise do something between the one and a half ounces and the two ounces. Something like that. No, a little less. How many are there? Oh, then add two more, because…’
As she scrambled along, the man looked bored around the shop. His eye fell on a carelessly handwritten card. “Honey peanuts,” it said. He nudged his wife, who had meanwhile reached the smoked almonds, and said in a high tone: ‘What are those, herring peanuts? Why do peanuts have to taste like herring? What is that all about?’
His wife squinted at the plate. “It says, I believe…” she began hesitantly, but the man interrupted her. “Herring peanuts,” he snorted. ‘Where does it end? First that mess with those gingerbread cookies. Pepernoten with chocolate. Pepernoten with strawberry flavour. Pepernoten with truffle flavor, God will keep us. Easter eggs, same shit. And now this. Herring flavored peanuts!
His wife put her hand on his shoulder. ‘But Bert, I really do believe that there ho…’, she tried, but the man shook her off. “And that cheese!” he bellowed. ‘Sambal cheese. mustard cheese. Do they think we’re retarded? If I want god damn mustard on my cheese, I’ll put it on myself!’ He had blushed. The woman patted him gently on the back. The girl behind the counter looked startled.
“If I want to eat the damn herring, I’ll go to the fishmonger,” the man roared. ‘Or will I get a herring there that tastes like peanuts? Yes, of course?’ And, pointing at the peanuts with a trembling finger: ‘Delicious! Herring!’
He spat out the word, like a bone.