Chapter 133: Mellow Yellow, Cinnamon and Spice

Contributing Muse: Tarasandia, 9 May 2021

I’m just mad about Saffron
Saffron’s mad about me
I’m-a just mad about Saffron
She’s just mad about me
They call me mellow yellow
They call me mellow yellow.

– Donovan Leitch, 1967

If you want them to think you are who you say you are, you have to walk the walk and talk the talk. I had hoped for such an opportunity and the bank board was here giving me exactly that. My preparations included a bit of a smokescreen, most of which I wouldn’t be able to back up over the long term. I had other plans which should do, instead of what I was selling today. Today, I was selling gold and the ability to import rare and expensive spices directly. That was what was needed, just a bit of subterfuge to get the ball rolling. I had the examples to hand out as proof of product.

Matilda had been miffed when she found out I had a stash of high grade herbs and spices locked away. I didn’t care. My everyday selection was better than what most top restaurants offered, and she had those at her disposal. With La Mancha saffron priced at five times the price of gold per ounce, I kept tight control over it. Getting more of these spices now would be extraordinarily difficult. High grade, bee pollinated Salvadoran vanilla was a very rare commodity at any point in time. I also had aged balsamic vinegar; this is the stuff that bends your mind when you taste it. Maybe you thought you knew about it, until you tasted the good stuff.

So, yeah, I hit the lottery and had splurged, simply because I could. These were things I could barely afford even on the pay scale I had before. A tenth of a gram of high grade saffron cost me almost fifty dollars and I bought it back then, when I collected a paycheck. When I got the ultimate paycheck, I bought the best of the best and I bought it in bulk. I brought a little of that here to serve as a sales tool. I split out my display cache with Sheriff and explained that he was offering these for trade as part of my pitch. We had small samplings of each, so every bank executive could have a taste. Noting the expense, the emphasis was on small.

Once we got them to bite on our ability to generate revenue, and having seen our cash deposits thus far, good tidings would flow our way. For a while at least. I knew that in 1822, investors were getting hungry for risk again. I intended to extend them an offering. I knew my money would come from patents and processing of the natural bounty I owned up in Rulo. My bet was that I could turn a profit so fast they would forget that some of the promised trade never came through.

We pocketed our samples, checked each other over one last time, and sang along as I played ‘Putting on the Ritz’ quietly on my phone. The last thing I said to Sheriff, before we headed into the meeting, was the absolute truth.

“We know the future. Never forget that we know the future.” And with that we walked into the den of the capitalist lion.

We walked like confident men, the simple knowledge of just a few bits of the future granting confidence we might have normally lacked. My confidence only grew when I noted that we were the best dressed and largest men in the room. A quick stop to greet John at the bar and he gave each of us a small measure of whiskey and a small elegant bottle of Max’s fine bourbon. First tastings were not of the bourbon we planned on offering.