the smuggler’s bible

Casimiro

Casimiro shuffles out of the rain, flaps his coat a little to get the water off then squelches away down the first aisle.

“Coconut, bean paste, cooking sherry,” he mutters, dumping things from the shelves into a basket. He hefts a sack of dry fettucine noodles. At the counter he shrugs and drops a tin of mints onto the pile.

“Big night,” the cashier says.

“It is cuisine. I am making chili.” Casimiro winks and—as if sharing a secret—opens his coat to reveal a battered copy of Poppogarde’s Sundry Comestibles stuffed in a pocket. “The recipe is antique.”