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of guaranteed safe storage for all manner of comestibles, whether fresh-baked or fried, complete with buttermilk well and yeast compartment!”
    I leaned forward, genuinely intrigued. “What is this thing, señor?”
    “Ah! Let me show you,” said Oscar, running to his cart. Porfirio rolled his eyes at me, but I got up and went to look anyway. Oscar unfastened a couple of latches and opened out one whole side of his cart. Glass jars glinted, and various hanging utensils and tools swung and shone in the firelight; but Oscar gestured past them to a big cabinet kind of thing that took up the entire back wall.
    “There you have it. Positively the last word in preservation of fine baked goods. All drawers lined with plated tin to prevent the unwelcome attentions of minor pests such as mice, rats, or voles. And! Regard the patented securing latches designed to foil the marauding efforts of coons, polecats, or possums! Why, given the superb solid-oak construction and high-quality brass reinforcement, I daresay the Criterion Patented Brassbound Pie Safe could withstand even the predations of our friend the bruin.”
    He didn’t know bears very well. Still, I had to admit the thing was impressive. It gleamed with fanciful brass trim all etched and inscribed with curlicue patterns of dizzying complexity. The various locks and latches looked formidable, and in addition to the drawers and cabinets were features at whose purpose I could only begin to guess: weird upswept or recessed sections.
    “Gee, Oscar, that’s really something,” I said.
    “Isn’t it? And yet—can I interest even one member of the native populace of Los Angeles in this modern marvel? You’d think any one of them would jump at the chance to call it his or her own. Yet here it remains, unpurchased, unowned.” Oscar shook his head in bewilderment.
    “Well . . .” I hunted for the words. “You know, Oscar, I’ve been in California for a hundred and sixty-two years now, and in all that time I don’t think I’ve ever seen a pie. Maybe that’s part of the problem? I mean, nobody even grew much wheat here until recently. And this safe was designed for real Yankee-style pies, right? Two crusts, blueberry or rhubarb filling, that kind of thing?”
    “True.” Oscar looked wistful. “I could go for some rhubarb pie myself this very moment.”
    “San Francisco,” Porfirio remarked from where he was stirring the frijoles. “That’s where he could sell it. Not in El Pueblo de la Reina de Los Angeles.”
    “I beg to differ,” Oscar said hotly. “I have sold these people maple syrup, quilting frames, and birch beer extract. I
will
sell this fine item. I simply haven’t found the right customer yet.”
    “There must be plenty of gringos in Los Angeles,” I said.
    Porfirio grinned. “They don’t make many pies. Too busy shooting one another.”
    “I’ll sell it, I say, and not to a fellow Yankee,” vowed Oscar. “Do you hear me, sir?”
    “What, is this a bet?” said Porfirio, sitting back on his heels. “You want to wager on this?”
    “By the goddess of consumer goods, yes! Name the stakes.”
    “Okay.” Porfirio looked thoughtful. “Let’s say . . .I get one of those snappy patent pearl-handled shaving razors you carry, if you don’t sell that pie safe before you’re transferred out of here. If you
do
sell it to a nongringo, I’ll personally prepare that New England boiled supper for you. I’ll even eat it with you.”
    “Then dig yourself a root cellar and lay in the rutabagas and parsnips,” said Oscar, eyes flashing. “For I’m at my best when given a challenge, sir, I warn you.”
    Porfirio turned his attention back to the grilling beef. “Go for it, man” was his reply.
    Personally I thought Porfirio would lose the bet. Los Angeles was becoming more of a Yankee city with every passing year. I learned from our copies of the bilingual
Los Angeles Star
that bullfights had at last been outlawed, to be replaced with the