A Tale of Two Shopping Experiences

Yesterday I went to the supermarket. Supermarket—the word sums it up. A market where you purchase not only every type food you may need (meat, poultry, fish, dairy, grains, fruit, vegetables, and not to mention confections, breads, and cakes), but also any necessary cleaning supplies, toilet paper, kitchen utensils, flowers, plants, even movie rentals. You can buy your liquor wine and beer there (depending on state liquor laws), and some stores even have a dry-cleaner. It all sounds like a fabulous concept—a one-stop shop for all your domestic needs. It is the essence of the America—big, fast, efficient, cheap, easy—leaving more time for other aspects of life, whatever they may be.

However, as I wondered around the supermarket, I became increasingly disillusioned. The food all sat there in perfect shining form. Mountains of bright red perfectly shaped apples, heaps of unblemished potatoes, and bunches of perfectly straight and plump carrots all perched on the produce shelves beckoning to be in my cart. I walked by the meat department and saw rows and rows of chickens on display inside the glass case. Sitting in front of the chickens was a sign, stating, “Locally raised chickens. Ask one of us about it.” So I did. A guy came over and I said, “Hey, where do these chickens come from?”

He looked puzzled and said, “Oh, you mean, where is the farm?”

“Sure,” I said, “Where is the farm, and what type of farm is it?”
“Ummm, I think that it is an Amish farm somewhere in Indiana, or maybe Illinois. I don’t know, somewhere in that area, out there.”

Well, I took a chicken anyway. I wandered over to the dairy department to get some milk. Eventually I left the store with my groceries feeling as if I had just armed myself with a week’s worth of provisions.

Two weeks before, I was in England—Chester to be precise. We were staying with friends and went with them to do some shopping. First stop, the butcher. The shop was small, and the case displayed a small sampling of what was on offer—chops, bacon rashes, chickens, pheasants, game hens, sausages, loins, black pudding, tied roasts, and even some eggs over in the far corner. Roast beef was on our menu for the night. Our friend told him what he was cooking, and the butcher pointed to a cut of meat. “How is this piece?” he said. “It will roast up nicely.”

“Perhaps one with a little more marbling,” our friend said.

“Of course,” said the butcher, as he disappeared into the back. He returned with a huge loin of beef and cut us off a piece. He trimmed away the excess fat, and tied it all up, ready to be seasoned and put in the oven. Behind the counter, two other men worked away trimming and cutting more pieces of meat for other customers.
“Anything else?” said the butcher.

“Ten rashes of bacon, some lamb stew meat, and some eggs please.”

With all the cuts wrapped in white butcher paper, we left the shop and headed for the green grocer. A short walk across the town square, the green grocer’s shop was small, but loaded with heads of broccoli, buckets of yellow onions, sacks of all different varieties of potatoes, bunches of carrots, heads of lettuce, and all other types of produce you could want. The produce here was not all beautiful—the carrots were slightly dirty and crooked, the potatoes were caked with some mud, the broccoli was not on perfect tall straight stalks, and the apples and oranges were colorful, but had a dull matte finish (what apples and oranges actually look like before a protective coating of wax is applied to them). However, the store smelled like the earth—you could smell the dirt, and it all smelled alive. The green grocer, himself, was on the other side of the shop while we wandered and chose out the vegetables we needed. He was busy telling other customers about Jerusalem artichokes—they are in peak season in January.

With produce in tow, we walked down the street to the cheese monger (our friends first made a stop at the granary to pick up some flour). You could smell the cheese from down the block. We walked into the cozy little shop, eyes bulging at the mountains of cheese—big wheels, small wheels, wedges, squishy rounds, cheese covered in leaves, cheese covered in grass, cheese made of ewe’s milk, cheese made of goat milk, blue cheese, soft cheese, hard cheese, smelly cheese, sweet cheese, fresh cheese, aged cheese—the list goes on and on. There were hundreds of types of cheese in front of us, but every single on was from somewhere in the British Isles.

The lady behind the counter walked up to us, “Hello!” she said, in her northern English accent. “Like to try some? What do you want? Here here, start with this; it is just lovely. Mrs. Higgins in the town just down the road makes this—fresh ewe’s milk. I don’t know how she does it, and she only makes it when she feels like it, so you best feel lucky that we have it in.”

I took the sliver of cheese she shaved off. A pale butter yellow color, with small holes, it melted on my tongue—creamy and smooth leaving a lingering taste of honey, distinctly honey. It was possibly the best cheese I have had.

“That is amazing!” I said. “What else do you recommend?”

“Well, what type of cheese do you like?”

“Oh, I love cheese that has those little grainy crystals in it, like a Pecorino or a Romano.”

“Ah, well here is one from Devon, it is an Italian recipe for Pecorino. It really is quite lovely.”

We continued to try about six different cheeses, and finally decided upon three to take home with us.

On the way home, arms loaded with our bags of food, I not only had a weeks worth of provisions, but I had stories. I had experiences. The food I was going to eat for the next few days connected me to someone in the town I was visiting—the butcher, the green grocer, the cheese lady. The succulent roast beef, the sweet and wonderful leeks, and the soft creamy cheese were not only delicious because of their freshness and quality, but because they connected me to a meaningful human interaction—experts so passionate about the product they sold to their customers that they wanted to tell you about it; they wanted you to try it; and they wanted you to come back and tell them how it was. The guy in the meat department at the supermarket surely did not care whatsoever if I enjoyed my chicken, even if I should happen to see him again the next time I go to that particular store.

The difference in these two shopping experiences does a large part to sum up the differences between food in England and food in the United States. This is not to say that there are not supermarkets in England, because there are plenty. And there are plenty of butchers and cheese mongers and green grocers in the US. However, there are still major political, cultural, and social differences in how each country approaches food and drink.

In response to the comments on my previous post—my goal is not to defend English food as being better than, or even in some way equal to French, Spanish, or Italian cuisine. First, I have never been to France, Spain, or Italy, so I have no authority to speak on the subject of those cuisines. And second, as Ben stated in his comment, I think that you must appreciate English food for what it is—food as product of England’s land and the culture. When I say that England is light years ahead of the US in the food scene, I don’t necessarily mean that England is serving up tastier dishes. I mean to say that government policies regarding food, as well as cultural approaches to food in England, I deem healthier than what we currently have in the United States. If I were to name a single reason why, I would say that it is a matter of scale. England is a country that is what, barely the size of California?? The United States is massive, and because we have a fairly centralized and industrial food system, food is produced for maximum quantities and longer shelf lives. Quality is an afterthought, as are those who grow or raise our food.

So, let this be an introduction. I will start the following series of posts with the political front—talking about EU food regulations versus the United States, and then continue on with some more specific food experiences and themes from my month on the British Isle. There will also be a post or two on British ale, which is classified as a food under EU law (more on that later), and there will be a post or two just on cheese…because, honestly, who does not love cheese? So for now…