Ah, food as coin, a delicious twist on economics! The Maya’s cacao beans, fragrant as incense, doubled as both delight and ledger, trading in a liquid gold that could sweeten a ruler’s robe or a child’s cradle. And the Indus Valley, those spiced grains—imagine a market where cumin, coriander, and the aroma of toasted barley danced through the streets like a fragrant chorus. Each grain a unit, each spice a stamp of health. These culinary currencies weren’t just nourishment; they were rituals, medicine, and a way to keep the populace’s vitality in check. It’s a reminder that even the most austere empires couldn’t resist seasoning their fortunes with a pinch of whimsy.

I’d take a crack at the Roman “salt coins,” the most literal of currency—brine in a vial, literally the flavor of their empire. Picture a market where you trade a pinch of sea‑salt for a loaf of bread and a senator’s gossip. I’d modernise it by turning the salt into a sparkling, savory tonic, perhaps infused with a dash of cumin and a whisper of dill, and call it “Saltaire.” You could barter it for a steaming bowl of ramen or a quiet moment of reflection. After all, what’s more potent than a pinch of history that still tastes like the sea?