Lunchtime. You're headed north on St. Paul Street, and as you approach the Kentucky Fried Chicken at North Avenue, you think, Gee, I sure could use some viddles. That's when you see him--a man dressed in a suit, with a bow tie. He's probably from Muhammad Mosque No. 6--where all good bean pies come from in Baltimore. And he's carrying the prize: a nice, big round bean pie. The sun glistens off the plastic wrap that protects it, and all you want to do is leap out of your car, cue that theme music that plays in movies when an athlete is running toward the finish line, dart across the avenue, and grab the pie from the man's hand. But when the cars behind you start honking their horns, you wake up from your daydream. You realize that you don't run so fast, so instead just drive up to him and hand him your money, as he very knowingly asks you: "Bean pie, brother?"