A pale, weedy man with a severe hunch and baggy clothes stood in the lobby of a trendy restaurant, speaking to a chef festooned with tattoos.
“No, it’s not salt water taffy.”
“Then why make it in the ocean?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. This is something new, a delicacy, a very rare and expensive candy.”
“Can I just try it?”
“You need to understand how it’s made first, in order to get the full experience.”
“Look, I don’t need to know how a Twinkie’s made in order to like it; in fact, I’d rather not know. But go on.”
“Okay, you know how fruit preserves are made in a pressure cooker? Lots of heat and pressure to kill any bacteria. But it also changes the texture and taste of the preserves, which if they are homemade, makes them delicious.”
“Yeah, and?”
“Okay, so I wondered what would happen if I did something similar but on a much more extreme scale. That’s where my submarine comes in.”
“Submarine? Where did you get a submarine?”
“I’m an oceanographer, I go down to the bottom of the ocean all the time. And some parts of the ocean are very deep and very hot.”
“Hot? Why the hell is it hot? It’s the bottom of the ocean. It’s dark and cold and dead.”
“A lot of people think that, but in fact there are vents of hot water and ash that pop up at various points, and the water there is superheated because of the pressure.”
“And you go there to make candy?”
“I go there to work, the candy is a sideline.”
“Well, you’ve got the novelty factor on your side. Not a lot of ocean-bottom ash-vent candy on the shelves.”
“Exactly. People always want the next new thing, and this is it.”
“So how do you make it?”
“See? Now you’re curious. Just like everyone else will be. I can’t tell you exactly how I do it, but I designed a special container that can hold the sweetened fruit and expose it to the heat and pressure.”
“You’re afraid other oceanographers are going to steal the recipe?”
“I just want to protect my interests.”
“So can I try it already? I mean, it could be flown in from Mars but if it tastes like astronaut sweat nobody’s going to eat it.”
The oceanographer began to unwrap a piece of lead-colored candy from a wilted square of wax paper. It looked like a partially melted Jolly Rancher covered in pocket lint.
“Is that the ash, or the candy?”
“The heat and pressure cook out most of the color, that’s part of the experience. Now before you try it, remember it’s an acquired taste; like caviar or Scotch.”
The chef eyed the mud-colored morsel. He sniffed it. No odor. No hint about what lay ahead for his trained taste buds. He eased it onto his tongue and rolled it around and spit it to the ground. The oceanographer chased after the candy, re-wrapping it in the wax paper.
“Do you have any idea how expensive that candy is?” the oceanographer scolded, wrapping the candy like a wounded sparrow. “It would cost less to have a doughnut sprinkled with moon dust!”
“It tastes like a salted match. Get out.”
The oceanographer slunk out of the restaurant to a nearby bus bench. He unfurled the lump of grey candy, still wet with the chef’s saliva. Putting it on his tongue, he winced at the taste of it. The chef’s assessment was accurate; it did taste like a sweetened, salty match. As the candy melted away, the oceanographer’s hunch straightened, his pasty skin shone with vibrancy, his muscles grew to fill his clothing. People passing on the street slowed their stride to gaze at the handsome, charismatic man sitting on the bench. The oceanographer sighed.
“Nobody ever finishes the doggoned candy.”