Slow as Molasses

Grocery shopping here is both a pain and a pleasure. It’s a pain because it’s very slow. Well, at least it’s slow where I do my shopping. Some of that is my fault because I’m still having a bit of trouble finding things. Yesterday, I discovered that maple syrup is beside fruit rollups in the kosher aisle. Rice is not anywhere near the pasta. In fact, it’s not even with the Asian sauces. It’s across from the canned salmon, near the gift cards.

It would be so much easier if the store were organized into the food pyramid sections! Think about it! You’d have two rows called starch – yes, the rice and pasta would be near each other! Then, you could have a whole section with green balloons and bright lights celebrating fruits and veggies. It might make sense to have the toilet paper there too, because of all the fibre you’ll be getting. At the back, there would be a big, hale and hearty-looking butcher in a stained apron doling out the protein! Sometimes, when I’m really tired and not feeling inspired, I imagine grocery stores with sections labelled “Monday” or “Tuesday”, with the whole darn meal all set up for me to buy, but then I remember that’s called McDonald’s.

It’s actually not any slower than grocery shopping in Brussels. It’s just a different kind of slow. Over there, there are fresh cheese counters with hundreds of different kinds of cheese. There are soft ones and hard ones, young ones and old ones, cheese with deep blue veins or thin ash crusts. Usually, each customer asks for three or four cheeses. They never buy large quantities; most people have quite small fridges and they’re likely to serve it after dinner with fruit that very night anyway. It takes a long time for the server to unwrap each wheel or large block and then ask each and every time, with body poised for the difficult cut, “Like this?” with an enormous knife hovering over the cheese. There is a weird ritual there, where the serving person behind the counter will never look at you or even so much as acknowledge you until she has finished with the previous customer.

The same thing happens at the checkout in Belgium. The cashier will NEVER acknowledge you until she has finished with the previous client, who usually is steadily but not hurriedly placing everything into cardboard boxes and pull-carts. Over there, they don’t use plastic bags and customers pack up their own groceries after paying, while the cashier sits on her low chair, hands resting calmly on the slim metal cash box, meditating peacefully on the beauty of unionization and short work weeks. The second the previous client is finished, she’ll snap to attention, flash a brief smile, issue a polite hello madam, and begin scanning.

I have a pull-cart too. I bought it over there and I love to use it but, when I drag it out, I notice that my daughter pretends she’s just a friend of the family or a distant cousin from another state doing a school project on grocery prices in St. Louis. Oh well, I don’t care; I’m making a statement. I’m determined never to take a plastic bag again in my life. By the way, I am the only person on that mission in St. Louis. When you bring your own bag, the cashier offers you a pink raffle ticket that you fill out with your name and phone number. I have no idea why I have never won because I don’t think anyone else has entered the contest. Everyone else is trying as hard as they can to use as many plastic bags as possible, even doubling them up for heavy items, like one can of apple juice.

Here in St. Louis, the cashier faces you while scanning the food. This is the pleasant part of the grocery shopping. They are nearly always the nicest people in the world, who take time to say hello and even comment on your three-for-five-dollars frozen soy beans which, by the way, can be slipped right into a stew and the family won’t even know they’re not peas. I love it when I’m behind the local firefighters, who are well-known and loved, and they put up a good fight against the friendly ribbing and joking.

At least the firemen pay fast. They pay with cash. I pay by debit, which is an old habit formed in Canada, where bank customers were recognized long ago as being among the earliest adopters of this technology in the world. Hardly anyone pays by cash in Belgium either. Even the old folks in Brussels pay by debit card at the grocery store. Certainly no-one pays by cheque; they don't exist anymore in Belgium.

Ah, but in St. Louis, I think bank customers must get loyalty points for every cheque they write. I mean, come on! Who writes cheques anymore??? Young and old stand with chequebook and register in hand, waiting for the total so they can carefully write out the details, sign it and then dutifully record the amount in the little cheque register. They've got lots of time to do this because some part-timer is busy bagging their groceries for them. Sometimes, they write a higher amount and ask for cash back. Hey! Ever heard of a bank machine?!.

By this time, ice cream is melting, the kids are touching everything, and my left eye is twitching. Then the cashier meets my eyes, smiles, and asks, “How’re y’all doin’ today?” I carefully consider this question before answering because it sounds like she really wants to know. Yikes, time to make some friends, girl! Out of habit, I glance quickly at my kids, who have turned their attention to the automatic video rental and lottery ticket machines, giggling at some shared story whose plot I will never grasp. They’re fine. I guess I am too. “We’re doing great, thanks!” I say.