A mobster from an ex-Soviet republic runs his crew from the cover of a pickle factory on the outskirts of town. A renowned food critic, who has come unannounced to sample the pickles, gets caught in the middle of a gunfight with a rival crew. The mobster, not knowing what to say, explains to the critic that it was a rival pickle factory. The critic indignantly lectures him on the nature of capitalism and fair competition. Nevertheless he finds the pickles, which the crew had never paid much attention to, to be excellent. A stellar review lures adventurous out-of-towners to make pickle visits. Soon, they want pickle sandwiches, pickle recipes, the secrets of pickle-making. All this damned attention makes it difficult for him to run his business, which is prostitution. Meanwhile, his police snitch tells him someone is trying to frame him by leaving his pickles at crime scenes around town. The police are closing in on him, and the only way he'll escape the heat is find the true culprit himself. He calls in favors and leverages the combined forces of the mob. Their surveillance network is powerful, unmatched. They catch their man luring an underfed prostitute into a bakery: it was the critic! As he is dragged away by two goonish mobsters to some unsavory end, he explains: That small first taste of blood at the gunfight that day was all he needed to awaken some primal appetite for murder. The pickles were a mnemonic. Their briny crisp flavor keenly evokes his virginal excitement, bringing alive that depth of pleasure he did not know he could feel.