On
top of an antique bureau, I find a packet of crisps. This is not my bureau nor
is it my packet of crisps. I turn to the owner of one or both.
He is a little old shopkeeper with a
fan of grey curls around the massive bald spot on top of his head. Only after I
clear my throat does he take his slippered feet off his desk and come to my
assistance. I point at the crisps. “Don’t you have a bin for that?”
The old man titters. “Actually,
you’ll find that this is just as much an antique as the bureau.”
“How so?”
“It’s Golden Wonder.”
I shake my head, waiting for more.
At last he holds up the packet for
me. I don’t see it at first but then I begin to notice how plain the packaging
looks: garish red text on a white background that is outlined in blue. The last
packet I ate from was made of bright green foil with a more modernized version
of the font. That is odd enough but then I glance up at the top right corner.
I turn to the shopkeeper. “5p?”
He nods. “5p Ready Salted Crisps.”
“How old is this?”
“Manufactured in 1960.”
I take the packet out of his hands
and examine it. “But this is still sealed. Are you seriously telling me that
these crisps managed to retain shape for sixty years?”
“I am.”
“You’re having me on.” I toss the
crisps back at him. “You’ve filled an old packet with stuffing.”
“Seeing is believing.” The old man
smiles, revealing yellow speckled teeth. “And tasting more so.”
I smile back at him. Well, not so
much smile as smirk. “Wouldn’t opening the packet invalidate the product?”
“Yes, but that would be the private
business of its owner.”
“Isn’t that you?”
“I think you’d like to own this.” He
peers up at me through his dusty spectacles. “You seem very curious.”
“You do too,” I sneer.
“I am merely promoting my wares,
young man.”
“An antique salesman promoting
crisps?”
He taps the top of the packet
lightly, making a slight dent. “Promoting an antique. A very rare and highly
unusual one.”
I can’t disagree with him on that.
Still I don’t understand this situation at all. “How did you even come by
this?”
“Would you believe me if I said that
I used to work on the production line?”
“Not really, no.”
He pulls a face. “I’ll have you know
that this here packet of Golden Wonder crisps was one of the first ready salted
ever made. You know what that means?”
“A flavour?”
“Crisps used to come with a little
salt sachet that you poured in to improve texture and taste. Golden Wonder was
the first English company to put the salt in beforehand.” He wiggles his wispy
eyebrows. “Hence ready salted. What you hold in your hands is a very valuable
artifact.”
And it is still in my hand. For some
reason I just can’t put it down. I examine the outside again. “The packet
itself, you mean? I suppose but how much would it go for really?”
The old man’s entire face darkens.
“Look, miladdo, are you buying or not? You can’t just fondle my antiques all
bloody day!”
“How much are you charging?”
“Twenty.”
The packet almost drops to the
floor. “Twenty pounds? For what?”
“For history.”
“For mystery, more like.”
“Yes,” the old man speaks slowly.
“That too.”
For the umpteenth time I run my eye
and hand over this bizarre little con. I really feel the packet this time,
searching for telltale signs of stuffing or polystyrene inside. I hear
something crack. It sounds like it might even be the real thing.
The old man puts his hands on his
hips. “You break it, you buy it.”
Reluctantly I reach into my back
pocket for my wallet. A crisp £20 note for antique crisps.
“Shall I open it in the shop?” I
ask.
The old man wafts a dismissive hand.
“You do as you like.”
“And what if I release some noxious
salty cloud? Wouldn’t want that in your antique shop now, would you?”
He makes his way back to his desk,
tapping every chest of drawers and display cabinet along the way. “Please,” he huffs.
I think about opening the top seal
carefully but decide to pop it open with the palms of my hands instead. The old
man barely looks up from his accounts book. I peer inside the hole I just made in the packet.
I can barely believe it. The crisps look like they have been made today.
Still I just can’t believe they are fresh from the 60s.
“Well,” I say aloud, purely for the benefit of the old man. “These look
suitably nutritious. Salt really is an amazing preservative, isn’t it?”
The shopkeeper slams down his book. “You have bought your antique.
Kindly leave the premises.”
I resent both his tone and volume but leave all the same. I slam the
door behind me, hoping that the little bell above comes clattering down in the process.
Out on the street, I peer into the crisp packet again. Golden Wonder. It
has been a while since I last sampled a crisp. Still my hand pauses as I reach
inside. The shopkeeper seems mean-spirited enough to put something into these
crisps, possibly something toxic. Maybe that is what this whole antique crisp
packet idea is about: tricking some poor dolt into paying £20 for the privilege
of being poisoned. If so, why am I considering being that dolt? I should turn
back right now and demand a refund. I might have a fight on my hands to get it
but I will win.
Nevertheless, through all that negative certainty, I can’t help but
wonder if what I hold in my hands is the real deal. What if these Golden Wonder
crisps are incredibly well-preserved relics of a bygone era? Well maybe not that
but what if they are something special? An odd little treat to find in an
antiques shop.
My fingertip touches the ridge of a small crisp. I see grains of salt
bounce off as I bring the thing to my lips. I sniff it. It smells fresh but in
an old way: the freshness of mint condition. Well, ready salted condition.
Curiosity brings the crisp to my lips before I know what I am even
doing. I don’t even hesitate. I bite down on the past.
Yuck...
