A man comes into a tobacconists shop to buy some cheroots. The shopkeeper, who is clearly Jewish, says: “And some salt, sir?”
“What do you mean – some salt? You don’t put salt on cheroots.”
“Course not, sir, but the human body needs salt – else you die. I could give you a special price on some genuine oceanic salt I’ve just got in. But I’ve boxes and drums of ordinary table salt, and I’ve potassium salt for those who have need of it: or - ”
“Hold it! I never buy salt, my wife does. Anyway, you only have cigars, and fags here. I don’t see any salt.”
“Ah, but my salt cellar is in the basement. Down there I’ve got the biggest stock of salt in all London. Come and see it! No obligation to buy.”
His customer follows him down a flight of steps. The basement is bigger than the shop, and full of salt – in sacks, packets, boxes, drums, and loose in great heaps.
“Wow!” says the customer. “I’ve never seen so much salt.”
“Doesn’t it look wonderful, sir? Take as much as you can carry. You’re sure to find a use for it. ‘Free delivery in the Greater London area for orders over three hundredweight.”
“But I don’t want any salt, and if I did I wouldn’t buy it by the sackful. I thought you Jewish guys were all good businessmen. How come you have all this salt and can’t sell it?”
“You’re perfectly right of course, sir,” the tobacconist replies. “Me? I can’t sell salt. But Oh Boy! The man who sells me salt – can He sell salt!”
