The Supermarket

Years ago, a lifetime it seems sometimes, I worked for a public television station. As anyone who works in public broadcasting knows, this means involvement in pledge drives. One day, as a not-my-station pledge drive came on the air, I turned up the volume and listened intently, shouting out directions any time anyone made a pledge drive faux pas.

Later on, I groaned to my Saintly Sister about how my life was ruined. I was now addicted to pledge drives! No, she countered. You are getting some measure of pleasure from something the rest of us find odious. How wonderful.

Wonderful, indeed. I now happily turn up the volume on any pledge drive, and happily yell out directions to no one who can hear me. (Incidentally, radio drives are better than TV these days. Too many TV stations rely on pre-taped breaks. They are no where near as much fun.)

So last year, I stood in the Western grocery store in Beijing, (having spent an hour on the busiest subway followed by a fifteen minute walk) and found myself staring in awe and amazement at the cans of vegetables and beans and pickles. And I don't eat a lot of canned vegetables. But to see them arrayed there in all their colorful simplicity, with easily read labels, well, I was in heaven. And once again, one of those pesky tasks that cause anger, consternation, and impatience fell away. I could feel the weight of grocery shopping lifting off my shoulders (even though I would actually be carrying home all my groceries on my shoulders that afternoon). But for the rest of my life, I will be grateful for the ease of buying Western food in a Western shop. It was just so ... easy.

The same is not true for Chinese grocery stores. One of the things about the Chinese language is that is always sounds like people are yelling at me. I know it's all those fourth-tone karate-chops, but it just sounds angry to my untrained ear. Of course, sometimes they are yelling at me.

I haven't figured it out yet (not that I've bothered asking), but either each fruit, vegetable, and meat clerk works on commission or they are just deeply attached to their jobs. Each section of the store is like a mini-fiefdom, and each lord and lady is constantly barraging shoppers with extortions to buy his or her apples, celery, or beef. Buy my pork! No, buy mine! Mine is better, fresher, cheaper. Look, look, lamb. Do you want lamb? Maybe chicken. This is chicken!

It gets old. Forget for a moment that I'm a foodie, and I can recognize lamb, beef, pork, chicken, and duck on sight and do not need them to tell me what they are. It's just exhausting. Three greens for five kuai! Sometimes, they even have microphones. As if the fourth tones weren't loud enough.

And then, of course, you have to have your items weighed before you get to the check-out counter. There are various fruit and vegetable fiefdoms, and woe be unto you if you bring the wrong vegetable to the wrong scale. Of course, they hoard the plastic bags there, too, so first you need to fight for a bag, then elbow a little old lady out of the way to have your bag weighed, all the while avoiding standing directly in front of the loud speaker. It gets exhausting.

Last night I went to the store to get the ingredients for chili. (I had the spices and the tomatoes, but pretty much everything else can be sourced locally. Actually, some tomato products can be, as well.) Anyway, I needed garlic. And I don't buy garlic in the 12-head packs it comes sole in, so it meant bulk garlic.

I took my two heads, expecting a sigh and an incredulous look that I would purchase such a tiny amount (this ain't my first time buying garlic, mind you). I handed over my garlic to the man. He weighed, wrapped, and stickered it. And as he handed it back, he raised his head and looked me in the eye. And there was no impatience or incredulity. Just a simple look: Here you go.

It was calm. Dignified, even.

And it renewed my faith in the grocery store. Maybe I can even make it the point where I want to go to the Chinese grocery store? Well... I guess pigs might fly.