Simon Rich - Spoiled Brats - Stories

It takes three days for scum to form in jars and pickles to be sour. During this time, I prepare my vending cart. It is not so hard because people in Cobble Hill are insane and leave perfect, clean furniture on sidewalk. I find dark-wood bureau outside of brownstone and place it on wheels of old baby carriage.

With rest of my money I buy living supplies, to help me survive until wealthy. For shelter, I buy tarp and rope at hardware store. For hygiene, I buy soap and toothbrush from Duane Reade. For eating, I go to Key Food and buy butter made from peanuts. All of these things together cost twenty-one dollars.

I also buy lockbox to keep all my money and crowbar in case there is thief, and I must violence. These two necessities cost me nineteen dollars.

I am left now with two dollars. If it runs out, I know I will have many troubles. But all I can feel is excitement. I know it sounds strange, but I have truly missed doing work.

When I was the rat man at pickle factory, I did not have much influence on company policy. This was unfortunate, because sometimes I had decent ideas. For example, one day I realized that things would run better if the labeling girls wore hairnets, because they would not get pulled into the gears so much by their hair. I told my supervisor, and he nodded like he was listening, but the girls never got any hairnets and they kept getting pulled into the gears, about three of them each month, screaming, “No, my God!” while everybody wept and so on. It slowed production. I always dreamed someday I would be boss and run things in the way that I thought best.

Now that I have my own business, I am in charge of everything. I get to decide recipe (salt and garlics). I get to decide uniform (gray). I even get to decide name of company. It takes me long time to invent one, because titles are so important. It must be something snappy and stylish that will stick in people’s heads. Eventually, after several hours, I think of good one and write it onto cart: SARAH’S STATUE OF LIBERTY GARLIC PICKLES WITH SALT PICKLE COMPANY.

All that is left to decide now is location — and it is easy choice.

I have spent ten days lounging on the western shore of Brooklyn, idling among the brownstones of the wealthy. But, if I am to succeed as peddler, I must go back to old neighborhood, where the streets are always clogged with hungry laborers. I must return at once to Williamsburg.

“Are these gluten-free?” the tattooed man asks me, holding up jar to his face.

I hesitate with fear. I have been at Driggs and Ninth since sunrise and he is first person I have seen.

“They are pickles,” I explain.

He squints some more at jar.

“What about sulfites?” he asks.

I do not know his words, but I sense he is starting to lose interest. I decide it is good time to make pitch.

“Whole Foods sells pickle jar for seven. I sell for four and include all the scum.”

I point to the scum, which has collected nicely inside top of jar. The man smiles tightly as he hands me back the pickles.

“I’ll come back later,” he says.

I sigh as he rides off on bicycle. It is almost seven and still I have no sales.

“Pickles here!” I scream. “Pickles with garlic and scum!”

My voice becomes hoarse, but still nobody comes. I do not understand it. The streets are mostly empty, even though the sun has risen. How could the people of Williamsburg sleep so late on a Thursday? Do they not have factories to go to? There must be some holiday that I do not know about.

I am thinking about finding new location, when I spot two skinny men eyeballing cart.

“Check it out,” one of them says. “Artisanal pickles.”

I stare at the pair. One has taken tiny gadget out of pocket.

“He’s not on Yelp,” he says. He picks up one of my pickle jars and holds it to the light.

“How local is your produce?” asks the other.

I am confused as usual but decide it is best not to show it.

“I make pickles here,” I say. “In Brooklyn.”

The men smile and nod, impressed for some reason by this information.

“And is it all natural?” one asks.

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you add any chemicals? Like benzoates or preservatives?”

“I do not know what any of that is.”

The men nod some more, impressed again.

“You know what?” one of them says. “I think I’ll take a jar.”

He pulls out his wallet.

“Do you take Amex?”

“Only cash,” I say.

“Good for you,” he says. “The credit-card conglomerates are murdering small businesses. If we’re going to fight them, we need to start on the microlevel.”

“Is fine,” I say. “Four dollars.”

I crack my neck and get into haggling stance. But, to my shock, he does not argue price.

“Here you go,” he says, taking dollars from his pocket. I grab them and stuff them into lockbox before he can change his mind.

When I look up, the men have opened the pickle jar and are sniffing the brine.

“It’s got an amazing bouquet,” one says with his eyes closed tight. “Really vegetal.”

“It’ll go great with the quinoa,” says the other.

After some more strange sniffs, they close the jar and start to walk away. They are holding hands, I notice. I am so confused by this that I almost forget to shout important thing.

“Wait!” I call out after them. “You must bring back jar!”

They turn around and squint at me.

“Excuse me?”

“You must bring it back when you are done,” I explain. “So that I can reuse.”

“You reclaim your jars?”

“There is nothing wrong with reusing jars,” I say. “You can fill them again and again and taste is same.”

“Amen to that,” the man says.

“You must return jar,” I repeat firmly. “Or I will violence.”

The man rubs his chin and then smiles.

“You know what?” he says. “I think I’m going to write a blog post about you.”

“A what?”

“A blog post.”

“A what?”

“A post. On my blog.”

“A what?”

“A blog post.”

“Fine,” I say. “Is fine.”

WilliamsburgFoodie.com

No label. No logo. No website. Just pure, authentic taste.

My discovery of the perfect pickle, by Chris LeBoz

We’ve seen so many touted picklers crash and burn this season — La Pickle, Cuke, Das Pickle. So I was fairly skeptical when I came across this cart (see photos after jump). How could I be sure I wasn’t falling for another gimmick? How could I be sure these pickles were authentic?

One sniff of brine erased my cynicism. The fact of the matter is, if you haven’t had Sarah’s Statue of Liberty Garlic Pickles with Salt, you haven’t had a real pickle.

Herschel Rich handcrafts his artisanal pickles locally, using freegan cucumbers, unpasteurized river water, and reclaimed glass jars. The pungent taste is not for everyone. And the floating salt scum takes some getting used to. But guess what? This is what pickles are supposed to taste like. If it’s too much for you to handle, head to Walmart, I guess, and buy yourself some jumbo Vlasics.

Herschel doesn’t water down his pickles — or his politics. He refuses to use chemical additives, relying entirely on all-natural, locavore ingredients. In fact, his devotion to conservation is so extreme, he personally reclaims his pickle jars from customers. When I asked him to explain this unusual practice, he clenched his fists with passion.

“There is nothing wrong with reusing jars,” he said. “You must return jar.”

In a land of DIY pretenders, Herschel is, quite simply, the “real deal.” His cart is constructed entirely of salvaged wood. His clothing is homemade from repurposed rags. And his product name seems purposefully designed to be as noncommercial as possible.