As I stared at the smilie face on the cashier’s counter and below it, the word “SMILE” hand-written on a purple sticker, I felt guilty, slightly glum and a little confused.
“What do you want from me?” I mentally asked the self-righteous food market.
It had started out well enough.
Earlier, walking into my hotel room, I was excited to discover a full kitchen, a dining table that seats six, and all of the proper appliances. “Wouldn’t it be fun to eat properly this weekend?” I thought. “Just need a few supplies and I’m all set.”
The sun was shining, the air was a warm 75 degrees, a good 50 degrees warmer than that I had left behind. The mental shopping list was short – just a few things to stock the kitchen.
Strolling along, I passed delis, convenience stores and bodegas. I only needed a few things, and could have gotten them at one of these places, in 5 minutes, but today was about finding a proper grocery where I could buy proper supplies. At last, I found myself face to face with this self-righteous food market. I was no stranger to this place in other cities. It wasn’t my first choice, but for a quick trip. No problem.
On the air conditioned breeze as the door slid open, wafted the smell of pretentious, upper middle-class dreadlocks and aromatic oils.
Not exactly a grocery store smell, but then at the entrance were products, traded ethically and fairly, for home and body. There were small signs explaining why the products were more ethical than those found in other places.
“Well, I’m all for ethicality. How nice. I can’t believe the awful, unethical candles I have at home. I must do something about that.”
I strolled through the refrigerated section, suddenly wondering what coolant was being used to keep the food chilled. The eggs were free-range, and some were cage-free. There were small signs explaining how this was better than other eggs.
“Oh those poor chickens at my home grocery store. I must check my refrigerator to make sure my eggs have been neither in coop or cage.” I picked up some eggs.
There was a freezer with gluten-free, dairy-free frozen pizzas. I assume they were ethical. The deli fridge contained gluten-free coleslaw. “Hmmm. I didn’t know there was gluten in cole slaw.”
In the meat section, I learned about ethical ranching. There were signs next to each meat product to explain such things. Well, except the section with various veal products was oddly absent of informational signage. The bread section had gluten free, whole grain breads, and I was relieved to discover that there were no dough conditioners containing such things as horse hair used, like in other breads.
In the coffee section, I learned about the awful things happening in coffee-producing countries and the way big, mean, nasty corporations are making it worse.
There was an unidentifiable kale & blueberry snack. Organic bones on which a dog could chew, featuring a sign about how these bones are better and more ethical that the ones at the pet store. Next to the frozen rice bowl meals in the freezer were healthy doggie snacks.
I had sort of forgotten what I had wandered in to buy, and was feeling very suspicious of the Morton Williams around the corner at home. I was already pretty sure Food Emporium was some sort of evil empire, but now there was something Imperialistic about Morton Williams and its international food selection. I don’t know about the man who runs the bodega on the other side of the street or the guy who runs the fruit stand on the corner, but surely they must have wicked designs for the earth.
I felt a sudden need to adopt a chicken, set a cow free into the wild and investigate the provenance of every bean in my morning coffee, as if each were a little coffee-colored blood diamond.
Rounding the corner to the cashier’s counter, I looked to the left, where there was a rack with a prominent display of three DVD’s for sale — “Blackfish” (poor Willy); “Watershed” (which would teach me about ethical water in the West); and “The Power of Probiotics.”
Rather than the usual real estate listings, right in my eyeline past the register was a publication which read “Liberation Soup” on the cover, apparently a very moving story about Haiti, but turned out to be propoganda for the self-righteous market’s philanthropic program that provides microcredit.
“What do you want from me, food market?” I thought silently.
“Total is $18.71.”
“Huh? Oh.” I paid the bill.
Staring at the smilie face, I thought,
“Now they tell me to smile. About what?”