The Staff of Life, or What Do You Want On Your Tombstone?

I'll be the first to say we live in tough times and being adaptable is key. So I can't say I blame a certain neighborhood shopkeeper for wanting to diversify. This particular purveyor, the owner of Grande Monuments, is an oooooooold-timer in my quasi-Italian, hipster-fied area of Brooklyn and his main business is the selling of tombstones, or "monuments" as the sign advertises. But now it seems he's expanded his wares to include ... wait for it ... bread. Apparently the death and dying business is slow? Or perhaps this shopkeep noticed his patrons getting peckish whilst perusing the adornments of their final resting places? Whatever the case, this strange juxtaposition of life-affirming bread and death-affirming gravestone seems at once totally ridiculous and strangely appropriate.

I've been eying said establishment for a couple weeks, torn about whether or not to risk further investigation. Much as I love bread and have no doubt that the sort sold in this funny little storefront would be delish (it hails from a reputable Italian bakery in Bensonhurst and is not, for better or worse, made onsite), the prospect of procuring such a comestible when its been rubbing spatial elbows with potential corpse placards makes me uneasy and a little nauseous. But on the recommendation of my local barista, who highly recommended the 'prosciutto' bread (quotation marks are reproduced per the sandwich board outside the shop), I peeked inside, and found that I was disturbing the shopowner's lunch. He was a short, squat, rheumy-eyed Italian fella who, when I openly marveled at the diversity of the wares on offer, merely replied, "We're trying everything." Fair enough.

The bread was displayed on an ornate silver stand in the shop window, and though the loaves seemed perfectly fine, I couldn't reconcile future eating enjoyment with the musty, fusty environs, Astroturf floor and tombstone-littered showroom. I asked about the olive bread, which is a weekend specialty, and promised to return, narrowly avoiding purchasing a guilt loaf. Before leaving, I noticed that the shop was also selling a pair of black suede Jessica Simpson-brand pumps. My gaze didn't escape our friendly shopkeep, who assured me they were of the best quality, being that they were endorsed by Britney Spears. You can't blame him for trying.