Grocery King

If I were the grocery king, the first thing I would do is establish a uniform layout required for every grocery store in the world. If they failed to use it, then, “off with their heads!” Heads of lettuce, of course. Normal people only go to a couple of different grocery stores and after half a dozen trips get cagey about where to find stuff. But in our nomadic life, we find ourselves in dozens of different food markets serving vastly different communities. This means that we are constantly learning where the cream of mushroom soup resides in its local habitat.

It might sound like I’m complaining. I’m not. For me, going to the grocery store is a fun part of being in any new place. I’m convinced that you will find an interesting slice of the local culture wherever you shop for food. This is most obvious in places like Korea where it’s fascinating to wander up and down the aisles pondering the contents of brightly colored packages boldly labeled in Hangul. Sometimes you can guess what’s inside by carefully studying the pictures.

“Oh, this is a fruit-flavored gelatin-based candy like a gummy bear,” I thought to myself. “I’ve got to try it.” After a three-round wrestling match with the outer wrapper, I found that each piece had its own individual plastic vial. Twisting off the top and squirting it into my mouth was among the bravest or stupidest, things I’d ever done. The contents may have been a gummy something in the past, but now it just slid down my throat like a greasy oyster. I was forced to admit this cross-cultural experiment was less than pleasant. I desperately hoped that the sliding would stop at my stomach.

Yes, Korean grocery stores are fascinating. The variety of fish and seafood spread through several refrigerated cases is totally amazing. My guess is that a college oceanography class could spend the better part of a week cataloging the offerings. For the most part, I was clueless about what I was seeing. However, an allergy to some kinds of seafood encouraged me to curb my experimental tendencies in that part of the store.

 A quick calculation at the meat counter let me know that I would need to take out a mortgage to buy a pound of hamburger. I imagined pampered cows in palatial barns having their hooves pedicured. I was later informed that due to its small landmass, most beef in Korea is imported. It largely comes from Australia but by using the home equity on top of my mortgage I could buy beef from the American Midwest. I decided to wait for a swing through South Dakota for my next steak.

But I’ve found that almost every market has a place that delights me. Several years back, when my eldest son lived in Stavanger, I found an entire case filled with pickled herring in a Norwegian grocery store. I’m definitely not allergic to pickled herring as I proved by eating multiple jars during our visit.

In Korea, I found a freezer case entirely stocked with Asian dumplings. I love dumplings. It’s embarrassing how many bags of those wonderful potstickers I purchased. My wife refuses to eat them, claiming they’re slimy. I don’t get that, but she doesn’t like pickled herring either even though three-quarters of her bloodline is Norwegian. She doesn’t have any Korean in her heritage, so I guess the dumpling aversion is more understandable. Fortunately, my grandchildren were willing accomplices, or I never would have gotten them all eaten. Thank goodness the love of Asian dumplings is hereditary.

It’s obvious, when you travel overseas, that grocery stores reflect their native culture. This is less clear for regional differences in the United States, but I’m convinced that they are there. I’m sure a qualified cultural anthropologist could be more concise, but I’ll do my best. As I mentioned, the navigational challenge when entering a new grocery store is considerable. But there are some general strategies that commonly work. For example, when you enter the main door, a turn to the right will normally bring you to the produce department. I would have expected this part of a food market to best express regional distinctiveness.

I suppose when there was a greater dependence on local farming for stocking, the natural flow of the seasons in that region shaped a market’s offering. Now, you can find papayas and avocados year-round. I suppose that, like happy hour, all fruits and vegetables are in season somewhere. Still, some local influence remains. July and August in South Dakota turn the produce department into a corn maze. Another example happens in the tiny grocery store near Portland, ND, when they feature beautiful tomatoes coming from the local hydroponic garden.

But in most stores, I am completely mystified by what’s seasonal. For instance, my wife insists on buying those tiny oranges when the “cuties” are in season. How do you tell? There are always net bags full of those things in every store all the time. I suppose I could ask her, but I ask myself, “Would the Fonz ask?” Well, there you have it—the mystery endures.

We’re in Georgia now, and I’ve been making a tour of all the local grocery stores looking for cultural distinctiveness. I can feel it when I walk into the store. Still, I can’t quite put my finger on it. I want to join Dorothy Gale in her timeless observation, “Well Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore,” but without Munchkins dancing in the aisles, I’m grasping at straws. Publix is pretty much the same as Hy-Vee.

I thought I was on to something the other day when I went into Publix with a list of six items to buy. I showed up at the checkout counter with five of them. So, when the cheerful cashier said, “Did y’all find everything?” I panicked. I had forgotten the orange juice. That was a problem, not only because my wife loves orange juice, but because it was the primary reason for the trip to the store.

The nice lady at the counter correctly interpreted my calamity. “Don’t worry darlin’, Cindy here will finish unloading your cart,” she said indicating her bagger. “You go find what you’re missin’.”

“Got to love southern hospitality,” I thought to myself as I raced for the dairy case. I scanned the dairy case—there was no OJ. I scanned it again all the way down past the butter and the cheese. Still nothing. I paced the perimeter of the store growing more and more agitated. Where the heck did they put the orange juice? Finally, I knew it had been too long. Even if I could find the stuff, there would still be a lengthy period of examination while I sorted through the endless variety of orange juices to find “Homestyle with Some Pulp.”  “Lots of Pulp” and “No Pulp” would never do.

So disheartened, I headed for the check-out station. The kind lady and her bagger had everything ready to go when I got back. The twenty-five-deep shopper line I had imagined piled up behind my unpaid cart never materialized. So, I relaxed a little as I navigated my way through a credit card payment. Still, I knew I couldn’t go home without fulfilling the prime directive.

“What were y’all looking for,” she said as she handed me the receipt.

“Orange Juice,” I said.

“Oh, it’s over in produce.” She smiled sweetly, seeming happy to have a helpful answer to my problem.

“Produce!” I exclaimed, “Why didn’t I think of that?” It makes sense. You look for oranges in produce, why not orange juice?

At last, I thought, I’ve found a significant cultural difference for Georgia food markets. Georgians, probably due to their proximity to Florida, knew enough to put orange juice in the produce department. I felt truly excited by this important anthropological discovery. However, a couple of days later I was wandering around Kroger’s and to my dismay, their orange juice was in the dairy case.

Oh well. Back to the drawing board. I’m sure I’ll figure it out if I visit enough Georgia grocery stores. Fortunately, I get hungry every day, so there’s plenty of motivation to fuel my research. Y’all come back now.