Halba Market Taste | طعم سوق حلبا
"She sells spices in Halba's market, mixing blends passed down for generations. He's the chef from Tripoli expanding his supply chain. Between cumin and coriander, they discover perfect combination. 'Inti el baharat el kaamli' (أنتِ البهارات الكاملة)."
Halba Market Taste
طعم سوق حلبا
Spices don't lie.
You can taste authenticity—the difference between fresh-ground and pre-packaged, between love and commerce. I sell love.
Then the chef arrives, seeking supply.
I'm Hanane.
Forty-nine, spice merchant, body carrying the weight of samples tasted daily. My nose knows quality; my scales never cheat.
Talal Karout runs kitchens I've never entered.
"I need consistent quality. Large quantities."
"My quantities aren't large."
"Then expand."
"My grandmother would spin in her grave." I hand him seven-spice. "Quality doesn't scale."
He's fifty-two.
Chef-owner, three restaurants in Tripoli, reputation for excellence. His success depends on ingredients like mine.
"Test this."
He tastes. Closes his eyes. When he opens them, they're different.
"This is extraordinary."
"This is Halba. We've been extraordinary for centuries."
He doesn't push for volume.
Returns instead—weekly visits, small purchases, longer conversations. His respect surprises me.
"Why do you keep coming yourself?"
"Because I can't send anyone else. They wouldn't understand."
"Understand what?"
"You. What you put into these blends."
He starts asking about me.
Not just spices—my life, my solitude, my dedication to tradition.
"You've never married?"
"Who would marry a woman who smells like cumin?"
"Someone who loves cumin."
The implication hangs in spice-thick air.
"Talal—"
"I've been coming here for months. It stopped being about supply long ago."
"Then what is it about?"
"Inti el baharat el kaamli." You're the complete spice blend.
The kiss happens among sacks of cardamom.
His mouth on mine tastes like everything I sell—complex, warm, surprising.
"This is unprofessional—"
"This is culinary. Everything culinary is personal."
We make love in my storeroom.
Among spices worth small fortunes. He lays me on burlap sacks.
"Mashallah." He breathes. "You're—"
"Large. Spice-dusted—"
"Delicious. Every inch."
He worships me like ingredients.
Tasting, savoring. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Talal—"
"Let me find the perfect flavor combination."
His tongue between my thighs.
I grip sacks of sumac, crying out. Pleasure like spice—building, complex.
"Ya Allah—"
"Perfect. You taste perfect."
When he enters me, I feel blended.
We move together among spices—his body and mine, creating something new.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax is perfect dish.
We cry out together—flavors combining, completing. Then we lie among the spices, satisfied.
Three years later
I supply all his restaurants.
Still small quantities. Still quality. Still visiting personally—though now for different reasons.
"Worth the trips?" I ask.
"Best ingredient sourcing I've ever done." He kisses me among the spices. "Best everything."
Alhamdulillah.
For markets that hold tradition.
For chefs who seek quality.
For merchants who become recipes.
The End.