The Authentic Empanada Vendor

Raúl had been selling empanadas on Córdoba Street for thirty-seven years when the Voight-Kampff machine arrived.

“We need to test your authenticity,” said the inspector, a pale man who sweated despite the cool morning. “Too many synthetic vendors infiltrating the market.”

Raúl wiped his hands on his apron. It was the same one his wife had sewn before the accident. Or maybe it was before the dream. He could never remember which came first anymore.

“¿Synthetic? Che, I’ve been making these since before you were born, pibe.”

The machine hummed. Questions came rapid-fire: “You see a turtle on its back in the desert. Do you help it?” “Your empanadas are criticized by a food blogger. How do you respond?”

“¿Turtle? What turtle? This is Argentina, boludo. We have cows, not turtles. And food bloggers…” Raúl spat. “I’d tell him to stick his review where the monkey hid the nuts.”

The needle jumped erratically.

“Curious,” muttered the inspector. “Your responses suggest you’re either completely authentic or the most sophisticated android we’ve encountered.”

Raúl’s neighbor Doña Carmen leaned over from her fruit stand. “Oí, Raúl, tell him about the time you put dog meat in Boca fan’s empanada.”

“That was Tuesday!” Raúl protested. “And it wasn’t dog, it was… questionable beef.”

The machine exploded in sparks.

The inspector stared at the smoking device. “Either you’ve broken our most advanced detection system, or…”

“Or I’m just Argentine,” Raúl shrugged, already preparing another batch of empanadas. “Same difference, really.”

Later, counting his pesos, Raúl wondered if authenticity was just another word for stubbornly refusing to change. He thought about how the world insisted that he wasn’t real.