I head outside to my bike, my bags stuffed with veggies and sprinkled with dirt. My bike is boxed-in by an indifferent hispanic lady with a large cooler. A man walks up and mumbles something in Spanish. The cooler opens and out wafts an intoxicating aroma.

Beef and chicken empanadas. In my mind I hear, “Fried means saturated oils! Carbs! Don’t eat that. Eat from these three bags stuffed with organic veggies!”

“Two please. Chicken, ” I tell the empanada lady who makes no acknowledgement of my order. She’s occupied by a Star Trek ear piece. But she takes my $2 and returns two empanadas to me.

They’re still wonderfully warm, and have a crispy golden shell. I slide them in a small paper bag which immediately begins absorbing oil. The empanadas may not be organic, but at least they’re fair trade, right?