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A Raid by Nancy Pelosi’s Gazpacho Police

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Today, speaking about investigations into the January 6 insurrection, Representative Marjorie Taylor Greene, a Georgia Republican, referred to “Nancy Pelosi’s gazpacho police.”


The knock at the door caught me with the spoon still in my mouth, and I felt a chill run down my spine—though I couldn’t quite tell whether that was my nerves or the tart slurp I’d just taken.

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“Who is it?” I called, swallowing hard. Just the right texture, I thought: a little chunky, a little creamy. If we could make it to market, we’d make a killing, one bowl at a time. But suddenly that was a big “if.”

“OPEN UP! GAZPACHO POLICE!”

Trying not to panic, I glanced around the place and knew we’d have to act fast. When you’re in this line of work, you always know there’s danger, but it’s easy to think that happens to other guys, the ones who are less careful. And besides, for hardened products of the calle like me, the thrill of illicit Spanish cuisine is too strong to resist.

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“The cucumbers!” I hissed at Mac.

He was in the kitchen, absentmindedly dicing an onion for the next batch. It was after 10 a.m., so I knew he’d already had a few glasses of cheap Duero vino tinto. That must be how he missed the banging on the door.

“The cukes, you idiot! Make ’em disappear! The cops are here!”

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His eyes grew wide, though maybe it was just the wine. He started shoving the vegetables down the disposal. I knew the officers might hear the grinding, but we had no choice. I stalled for time, telling the voice at the door I was on my way. Maybe we’d get away with it yet.

I gingerly cracked the door. “What’s the problem, ma’am? You got a warran—” But before the words were out, Sergeant Pelosi, the toughest cop on the beat, had barged past me.

“Got any cold soups in here, kid?”

“Of course not, officer,” I said. “Only broths and stews.” The lie came out cool and smooth, just like the recipe called for.

“You sure about that? Let’s take a look.”

“Th-there’s some chicken stock in the fridge, ma’am, but it’s for reheating.”

She scowled and stalked into the kitchen. In an instant, I knew I was toast, just like the croutons we’d been prepping to top the soup. Right there on the counter sat the Cuisinart, little bits of pureed tomato dripping down the sides. The spatula was still wet, its edge stained red. I knew our punishment would be swift and harsh: It was hard time in the goulash for me.



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