Робин Слоун - Sourdough

The door opened. The pickler of plums emerged, her face a tangle of vexations. I tried to catch her eye, to give her an encouraging look, but she was all wrapped up in herself, carrying her jar toward the stairs that would lead her down to the main concourse, where perhaps she would acquire a cone of cardamom ice cream to assuage her anxiety.

The bright-eyed functionary held open the door to the panel’s chamber and wished me good luck.

TONIGHT, CHAIMAN AND I counted through all the places we’ve ever lived: Brussels, Budapest, Turin, Avignon, Edinburgh, San Francisco. That’s six—about average for a couple of Mazg. I don’t know if I should count Edinburgh twice, now that we’re back here. Chaiman’s favorite city is San Francisco. (“FOR SURE,” he is shouting.) I don’t think I’ve found mine yet.

THE PANTHEON

THE ROOM WAS WIDE and well windowed with a blinding view of the bay, Yerba Buena Island directly ahead. Seven judges sat in a line at a long table, four women and three men, swaddled and comfortable, wrapped in scarves and caftans. Plain fabrics, generous cuts. They had different-colored skin and different-colored hair, but they shared a satisfied plumpness. It looked like a committee of harvest gods drawn from all the pantheons.

All except one, seated at the end of the table, who seemed less Demeter or Dionysus, more Hades. Her hair was shiny and slicked back; she wore a slouchy black leather jacket over a shimmering black T-shirt. Maybe she was the token goddess of death, and also of street fashion.

Welcome, the gods murmured together. What do you have for us today?

They were smiling, apple-cheeked, with friendly wrinkles around their eyes. They were wide-framed and golden-whiskered. They didn’t seem like cruel, uncompromising judges at all. Even the queen of the underworld was smiling.

Let’s have a taste, they said.

There was a bread knife waiting in a tray alongside other knives as well as spoons and cups. The instruments of ritual. Using the Ferry Building knife, I sawed seven generous slices.

Tell us about this bread you’ve made, they said. We do have many bakers already. But, Jacqueline, you never know. The Inner Sunset could use a good sourdough. That’s a fair point, Marco. Let her speak. Tell us about it.

“It’s unique,” I said. “That’s why I brought it. Sourdough depends on its starter, right? This starter is special, and I thought you would appreciate it.” A bit of flattery. They received it well. There was fluttering and cooing and those with whiskers stroked them.

I watched them eat. They did so carefully, all at their own pace. They sniffed the bread, flipped it over, tore it into smaller pieces. One gray-haired goddess held it up to the light, peering through the crumb of the bread as if it were a stained-glass window.

This is good, they said. Very good indeed. But we do have bread already. We have many fine sourdoughs. Is this superior? Is there a market where it fits?

A bearded god of wine and festivals asked pointedly: To what baking tradition would you say this belongs?

That stumped me. I would have been very comfortable lying, but I didn’t know any baking traditions at all. I was about to say I learned from Everett Broom, but I stopped myself; every baker who walked into this chamber must have learned from Everett Broom.

“Actually, I work at a tech company,” I confessed. “General Dexterity, do you…? Okay, no. I served this in the cafeteria there, and Chef Kate … I mean, Kate…” I realized I didn’t know her last name.

“Kate Rossi,” said the goddess of the dead. “Did she send you here? That’s interesting.”

From beneath a luxurious beard came a gentle query: “A tech company, you said? Are you … technical?”

I told them I was a programmer.

“And which do you prefer? Baking … or programming?”

“Do I have to choose?”

You might, they said. The day may come. Lake Merritt, it’s very busy, it demands everything of a vendor … Do you think she’s right for Lake Merritt? Oh no, no no no, I was just making a point.

The central goddess, a woman wrapped in a light blue shawl, had been silent. Now she quieted the rest with the tiniest motion of her hand. She had barely nibbled the bread. There was no charity in her eyes when she looked at me and said, “That will be all.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

Thank you for bringing this to us, they said. Thank you for bringing yourself.

* * *

LATER, I WAS WAITING for the announcements, walking in circles around the perimeter of the Ferry Building, two licks into a cone of soothing pistachio ice cream, when a voice called out to me. “You, with the bread.”

Me, with the bread?

It was the queen of the underworld. She stood in the shadow of the pillars that supported the Ferry Building’s great roof, smoking a cigarette, looking exquisitely renegade. She was positioned precisely one inch beyond the sign that demarcated the building’s no-smoking zone.

“General Dexterity makes robots, right?”

I turned to tell her yes, the company designed industry-leading robot arms for laboratories and—

“You program robot arms, and you bake bread.”

“That’s right,” I said.

“Interesting.”

“Is it?”

“Oh, definitely. People here tend to go the other way. They’re suspicious of technology.”

A jag of excitement skittered through my chest. Was this a hint? “Do you think I’ll get a spot?”

She lifted her head in what I thought was going to be the beginning of an affirmative nod, but instead her chin just hung there as she regarded me quietly.

“We’ll see.”

* * *

THE PICKLE PRODUCERS and miscellaneous others all gathered on the main concourse as the Ferry Building’s giant clock bonged the hour. Three echoing bongs. The bright-eyed functionary was standing on the catwalk above, and she read off names like a herald calling out the queen’s decrees.

I surveyed the crowd. Some faces were plainly tortured with anxiety, on the verge of tears and/or unconsciousness; others appeared placidly pessimistic.

“Gilroy,” the functionary called out. The farthest market. She began reading names and products. “Sonja Tarkovsky, tea.” There was a little whoop from the very back of the crowd; hundreds of eyes whipped around to find Sonja, some glittering with envy, others with naked malice.

The list went on, Alex and Graham and Jenna, cheese and coffee and bread—I winced at the bread—and as the crowd shrank, the stakes grew higher. The list was moving north and west, from Gilroy to Los Altos to Colma (a sausage maker slotted there emitted a quiet groan), from Orinda to Moraga to Lake Merritt, closer and closer to the ground on which we stood.

Each vendor accepted made his or her way to a table positioned beside the heirloom bean emporium to receive an orientation packet. The rest of us waited as the markets grew more prestigious and the list grew shorter.

At this point, I maintained no illusions. I would not be chosen.

The functionary came to the end: “For the Ferry Building Farmers Market”—the crowd was silent, levitating an inch off the ground—“we have no selections at this time.”

Everyone on the concourse exhaled together, withering disappointment mixed with clean, clear relief. The crowd disintegrated—the force holding it taut was spent—but the functionary wasn’t finished. “There’s one more,” she called out. Most people ignored her; a few turned curious faces toward the catwalk. What could possibly follow the Ferry Building? “For the Marrow Fair,” she said, “we have one selection.” No one cared. Never heard of it. “Lois Clary, sourdough bread.”

It barely registered with any of the others, who were all caught up in celebration or mourning. What was the Marrow Fair? I stared at the functionary. I wasn’t sure how to feel; excitement and confusion were duking it out, with horror quietly circling the ring. The functionary caught my gaze and pointed to the table by the beans, where the queen of the underworld waited.