A Tale from the Discworld by Australis
Late in Sator Square. The Opera House had finished for the evening, the more salubrious ale hoses had closed, and the crowds of Ankh-Morpork were milling about in their normal, slightly drunken haze, veins fizzing with power of the high notes of The Fig of Marragiato or with Jim Bearhugger's Bitter and Twisted (lager with a touch of lemon), and looking for the odd bits of business one sees on Ankh-Morpork streets after midnight.
Through the milling mobs strode one man, unafraid, with a slightly curious, slightly younger man following close behind. The man unafraid could sell many things to many people, and indeed, had. Right now, he was doing what he did best, spruiking at the top of his voice to all and sundry, he did not discriminate.
"Sausage inna bun! Git chore sossidge inna bun! They're hot! They're, er, lovely! They're so fresh they're still movin'! With mustaaaard! 50p each or three for two dollars, and that's cuttin' me own throat!" Those who felt they had a rock-hard constitution or those too drunk to care moved towards CMOT Dibbler, Purveyor of Food Extraordinaire. Behind him, the curious man watched, amazed at his uncle's ability to sell anything, and hoping to follow in his footsteps. This was young 'That's A Bargain', known to the family as TAB, from the far flung reaches of the Dibbler Empire. Well, from Slice.
Two of the hoi polloi wandered over, tatty in tattered trousers. "Yeah, we'll have three", said the surly looking one. "With onions", he insisted, and said to his companion, "y'can't eat 'em without onions."
"You mean they taste better?"
"No, you just can't eat 'em."
As Dibbler's first two customers staggered off, two swells, Lord Eelordy and Lady Enwaiting approached.
"Isay, Wodger, would you buy this faw me?"
"Certainly, m'dear, after all, this is the famous Dibbler, did the Patsy Smithers-Hyphen-Hyphen wedding last year."
"Really?" Now she was close up and could see what the tray held, she found herself a little faint. And she had heard stories from the wedding...
"Oh yes, m'lady", Dibbler said cheerfully. "The staff from Jolson's were all suddenly taken ill, can't imagine why, and fortunately my calendar was clear at the time. Would you like catchup or mustard?"
"Catchup?" barked his lordship. "Y'mean ketchup! Pwonounce it pwoperly, man! Sounds like it's got cats in it!"
"No, of course not", Dibbler said hurriedly, looking shocked, or at least he hoped he did. "Cats! What an idea!"
"Oh gosh, Wodger, I'm not sure-" Lady Enwaiting was cut off by a commotion from across the Square.
A team of four, snow-white horse entered the Square, the crowd moving aside as if stunned buy the blinding reflection of lamps and torches off their glossy coats. Behind them came a carriage, painted such golds and reds that radiated sumptuous living and fine style, only to be talked about with an envious sigh. The scrolled script proclaimed: 'Oliver's Restaurant De Wheels'. It came to a halt not far from Dibbler, and before he could react Lady Enwaiting had dragged her companion away. "I say, Wodger, let's see what this is all about!", she said with a forced brittleness that screamed "Mention not those ghastly offal tubes to me again!"
A man jumped onto the wagon as it stopped, dressed in high style, surveying the crowd over the glowing tip of a cigar as big as a big carrot. TAB was looking carefully at him.
"'Ere, uncle, isn't that-"
"Yeah", said Dibbler flatly. "Arfur Mynder." Arfur was a guy from the old days, knew his way around a deal. Dibbler had heard he'd gone to Psuedopolis for his wife's health, or possibly for his health from his wife, something like that. And now he was back. Dibbler had competition.
"Ladies and gentlefolk" Arfur said at full bellow. "After much travelling about this fair land of ours, it came to me that Ankh-Morpork needed some truly fine eating. And in my journeys I met a remarkable young man, a wise young man, a man who's know which end of a fork to use!"
"It's the end without the pointy bits!" said a voice in the crowd.
"Witty, sir, very witty, and no mistake! But I want you to try some of the finest food this side of Genua on Fat Tuesday. I want you to taste the wonderful flavours of the food of... Oliver Oliver!"
The side of the wagon flew up, and revealed the interior of lights, with open shelves packed with herbs and spices, a row of hot plates lit from underneath by small dragons, a plain wooden chopping bench that somehow radiated elegant style. And in the midst, a young man, face lit with cheery, cheeky optimism, bonhomie and all-round scampishness.
"Wotcher! Glad you're here, got some luvly grub for you this evening. Right, let's start with lightly minced beef in a wine and tomato sauce in a flaky pastry shell. Or, as some might say, a pie". His hands blurred as he piled the ingredients on the bench, never taking breath as he talked.
"Okay, got some lovely diced beef, yeah, we'll just toss'at inna frypan, right, throw in the dried tomato extract and some of the lovely drinky drink.. Okay. Then we let that simmer, give it a bit of a stir now and then, but wif a spoon, don't stir it by calling it names, makes the meat tough, ha ha. So, it simmers, and we get the flaky pastry, right, here's some I prepared earlier, yeah, give it a bit of heat from one of our ever-helpful dragons, okay, just to ever so lightly cook it. Okay. Now, a final stir of our beef, a large spoonful into the case, yeah, lid on top, and into the oven!" The oven door clanged shut. "Got some of them really little dragons, they cook using micro-heat, so it's really fast, right. Wait a sec, wait a sec..." The oven door was opened and even the hardened sceptics in the crowd gasped as Oliver lifted out a golden, glowing thing of exquisite shape and aroma. "Two dollars. Who'd like it?"
It had taken the Watch three goes to get the crowd in line and to stop hitting one another. In the end Detritus' looming presence did the trick. TAB looked on, concern written in a small, neat hand across his face. CMOT smoked a manky looking cigaretto but didn't seem worried at all, more curious. His nephew glanced at him.
"Aren't you concerned, uncle? He could put a severe dent in the sausage inna bun trade". Dibbler smiled and waved a circle of smoke in the air. All he said, with the hint of a wink, was, "Market forces, lad".
The fame of Oliver Oliver and his Restaurant de Wheels spread rapidly, and for night after night the queues lengthened. Staff was put on, little tables and chairs appeared with umbrellas that were too small to keep the famed Ankh-Morpork drizzle off, and printed menus and all the outre accoutrements of the outdoor eatery. And through it all, TAB watched Dibbler smile sanguinely at Arfur Mynder as he dragged the cash in, gloating.
"Uncle!"
"What?"
"What are we going to do? He's making all the money! You've only sold two sausages inna bun this week, and that was to Blind Freddy!"
"Don't worry, m'boy. Trust me. Things will start to change in..." he looked absently up at the sky for a moment. "... two weeks, three days and four hours from now".
"How can you be so sure?!"
That sly smile again, and a tap of the nose.
"Market forces, boy. Market forces".
So TAB Dibbler made sure he was around as his uncle carried his tray into Sator Square on the designated day, and set up opposite Oliver's. The first hour, nothing. Nor the second or third.
Then, as the fourth hour was ending, something strange happened. A couple were walking towards the fancy van, when they stopped, frowning, and turned instead to Dibbler, and he calmly sold them each a sausage in a bun. Then another couple. Then two drunks, a headball team and a couple, the girl getting the man to gag them both down on a dare. TAB Dibbler was amazed, and turned to CMOT as they watched the man rush across the Square towards the public conveniences and accelerating.
"How could you possibly know, uncle?! How?!"
"As I said, lad. Market forces".
"What market forces?!"
As a new crowd of buyers gathered around, CMOT Dibbler, the Salesman With A Thousand Pitches, declaimed to his pupil in a loud voice, for all to hear.
"Lo, m'boy, in these many years, on these many streets, have I learned noomerous things, deep and dangerous, that take those little men in yellow robes up around the Hub lifetimes to acquire. I know what people want, and when you have what they want, they will always returneth unto you". He gestured grandly at the cart, as more and more of its customers left and gathered around him. "Fine food is all very well for a little while, the change is a wonder among the people, but there comes a day when they say to themselves, 'What I really want only good old Dibbler has'. And they come to me for it, in spades. Because they've been eating my stuff for so long fancy foods pale and they want the taste of the good old stuff". The crowd nodded agreement.
"Yeah", said one. "I miss the surprise of unnamed meat".
"Well...", said Dibbler.
"Rabbit ears", said another
"Er..."
"Pig lips".
"Pink wobbly bits".
"Grey lumps".
"Tubes". A sigh rustled through the mob, until Dibbler cut in.
"Exactly! Ahem". He turned back to his nephew. "With that lot over there, it's fancy. A man couldn't stomach it month after month, or pay those prices, unless he's very rich and has a fat wish."
"Fat wish?"
"Like a death wish, but for an expanding waistline. M'boy, when they come to Dibbler, it's cheap and they know what they're getting".
"Yeah, crap", said the voice in the crowd.
"Thank you", said Dibbler tersely, before turning back to TAB. "What the people want will always tell in the end". A light of understanding shone around TAB.
"Market forces!"
"That's right. Market forces".
There wasn't much to tell after that. Over the next few weeks the trade to Oliver Oliver's Restaurant de Wheels began to fall away. Arfur made an attempt to lure the crowds back by having his star wearing only an apron and billing him as the Semi-Naked Cook, but after the nasty accident with the boning knife, the hot fat and the small umbrella, it was abandoned, as was the cart, boarded up and lonely on the edge of Sator Square, until someone nicked its wheels, and the rest was broken up for firewood or clothing.
A few months later, TAB Dibbler was on his way back to Slice, and as he was making his way across the Brass Bridge, he could see his uncle, cajoling a couple of dollars from the passing trade and looking pleased with the world.
With the secret knowledge of market forces locked away in his head, the young man set his face toward home and the fortune that awaited him.
The End