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“I’m the head chef at Baba’s. A few doors from here?”

My stomach rumbled as I thought of the delicious garlic smell that often emanated from there when I walked by. “I’ve never been there, but it always smells amazing.”

“Tastes it, too. Have you had baba ganoush?”

“Only the prepackaged stuff we sell here.”

“That’s a no then.” He almost looked offended. “Baba’s serves Levantine food. Middle Eastern. Tabbouleh, falafel, hummus, shawarma, pita. That kind of thing. My baba ganoush is the best. It’s rich, but not too heavy, balanced with garlic and lemon. The roasted eggplant is what gives it the real flavor. Everything else just enhances it.” He held up a small, pale purple eggplant. “My produce delivery came loaded with these. Bland. Unusable.” Then he picked up a large one. “Bitter and filled with seeds. Without baba ganoush, customers will leave.” He smiled at me, holding up a better looking one. “Now they won’t.”

The man, who introduced himself as Dimos, and I spent another half hour sorting through the eggplant as he told me more about the restaurant and their dishes. My stomach grumbles grew into growls.

Maybe Theo and I will go soon.

With much more than a hundred eggplants, we loaded his full boxes onto another cart. I pulled out my small walkie-talkie. “Jerry, I need you at the furthest register in the front.”

“On my way,” it crackled a moment later.

Jerry’s eyes grew huge when he saw me wheeling the cart to the front.

“This is the store manager,” I explained, parking the cart in front of the aisle. “He’ll get you all checked out.”

“Thank you for all your help,” Dimos said, pulling a business card from his wallet. “Come in and eat soon. Give them this, and I’ll cook you a feast. One that will includefreshbaba.”

“Did you find everything okay?” Jerry asked Dimos.

“Thanks to Dahlia, I did.”

Jerry grinned at me. “She’s a good one.”

With my part finished, I returned to my department. Working side-by-side with everyone, we were able to get everything restocked from the lunchtime shoppers before the after-work crowd would inevitably descend in last-minute chaos.

“Can I help you with that?” I asked a tiny elderly woman as she struggled to reach some of the gourmet mushrooms that were kept up high. She’d probably been around my height at one point, but had shrunk with age.

I glanced to the side to see Bill lurking around, his face in his phone. I knew he’d seen the woman practically scaling the cooler to get to them, but he hadn’t offered any assistance.

“Thank you,” she said, stepping back so I could move the step ladder in place.

Grabbing a plastic baggie, I looked down at the woman. “Which of these were you needing, and how much?”

Her hand shook as she reached out to point to the most expensive ones. “Four… No, wait, let’s make it eight of those, please.”

“Ma’am,” I started, hesitating as I tried to think of the proper way to word it. “Do you have plans with these? They aren’t like regular button or portabella mushrooms. That’s why they’re so over the top expensive.”

“Oh, I know. I did my research.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a cell, swiping her finger across. When she turned it, I could see a webpage describing different fungi. She turned the screen back to her, and I couldn’t hold in my laugh.

‘Classy Bitch!’

This little old lady’s phone case proudly displayed the phrase in hot pink rhinestone.

She pressed a button and then flipped the phone again so I could see her background image proudly proclaiming ‘I’m hotter than my flashes’, and gave me a cheeky grin. “At my age, you’ve gotta keep a good sense of humor.” She took the bag of expensive mushrooms. “Every month, three of my girlfriends and I get together for aChoppedstyle cook-off. You know, the Food Network show?”

I nodded, having watched all the episodes on Netflix, multiple times.

“Oh, that Aarón and Scott… They definitely know how to keep a kitchen hot.” She fanned herself before winking at me. “We always try to bring the best ingredient. I found out that Betty,” she mocked with a roll of her eyes, “used her connections to get kangaroo meat. I didn’t even know that was a thing, but it is, and it’s a delicacy. I don’t want to eat a cute kangaroo, but I’m also not going to lose to her.Again. I can’t get anything weirder than that, but I can get something fancier.”

An image of cartoon Kanga and Roo flashed in my head. “People eat kangaroo?”

“It seems so.” She held up the bag, taking great care. “I have it on good authority that two of the three judges this month, also friends in the complex where we live, are mushroom lovers. And one of them is a big animal activist. She donates money all the time to the zoo and humane society.” She lowered her voice and leaned in. “I may have snooped through some mail. Shh.”