Piquant fragrances arise, from a humble stove, and waft up, up, high into the atmosphere. They billow and float away into the mystic, then — suddenly, serenely, tantalizingly, down to terra firma. Olfactory nerves the world over are titillated by the scent — what could it be but a gift from the heavens, a divine lagniappe? Entire continents are gently fire-bombed with this transcendent aroma, a sublime secret mix of spices and seasonings that leaves God himself in awe. No medley of His earthly essences has ever provoked such visceral burning; like a deep, carnal, sexual passion amplified to the hundredth power.
Populations migrate en masse, as one, to the source of the historic delight. Otherwise honorable men, transfixed by the hypnotic allure of the awaiting treasure, founder and tumble over one another with no regard for norms of decency. These mere social constructs are of no interest to the determined travelers, who march toward their food Mecca like moths to a porch light.
They come nearer, frothing at the mouth. The originator of the holy odor knows not what to do with so many men, of every color, every creed, all begging for even a piddling sample of whatever rapturous delicacy could produce such a smell. He pleads for quiet, for calm, for a moment’s serenity, but the desperate masses are upon him, tearing at his kitchen, slaughtering friends and enemies alike to maintain favorable positions in line.
Their crazed antics producing no results, the frenzied mob hushes. They kneel, slowly, respectfully, and bow, heads to the ground, prostrate. They are worshipping the smell, reduced to idolatry by its power. Some sob, others appear to orgasm. It is a sight unseen in the brief history of mankind.
The owner of Plouf Plouf food truck awakens from his dinnertime nap. No starved hoards have come to revere the $20 sprig of parsley salad. At least there is time to angrily reply to negative Yelp reviews.