Gosh, I miss grocery stores of the ‘50s and ‘60s, the kind where humble grocers like Mr. Whipple — the Charmin squeezer — strolled around the store, and where friendly cashiers punched in prices on cash registers that emanated the original “cha-ching” sound.
I also remember the huge pyramids of precariously stacked can goods — what an art form! Plus, back in the day, each item was sold in the same aisle and on the same shelf for decades; I didn’t need a GPS equipped smartphone to locate the pancake syrup each time I shopped.
Today’s supermarket is an entirely different concept. It has quaint nooks reminiscent of old-world butcher and baker shops. Another nook is the fishmonger who enjoys only limited popularity, especially after the weekend when the smell of unsold fish is so overpowering. In fact, in-house florists get frustrated because the stench of expiring seafood causes flowers to wilt.
Then there’s the long cereal aisle. This used to be a selection of a half-dozen brands; now it’s a mind-boggling spectrum of choices. The aisle is continually packed with whimpering little brats, all pleading with their mommies to buy cereal with a toy in the box or cereal that’s pure candy. On the bright side, neighborhood dentists prosper because thousands of decaying baby teeth need to be drilled and filled.
It’s amazing how prices have crept up in supermarkets. The pharmacy section of my supermarket has a blood pressure monitor station. Perhaps instead of having just one monitor station, there should be one at the end of each aisle. Then distraught shoppers would know whether to continue on to the next aisle or to take a blood pressure pill before venturing further.
Yes, there are a couple of pricey items that I enjoy, things like virgin olive oil and Angus beef. I no longer suffer sticker shock when I make those purchases. What does blow my mind is the price of gourmet water. I can put two gallons of gasoline in my car for the price of a six-pack of signature water. I’d even have second thoughts about buying the stuff if I were stranded in the middle of a desert.
Then again, maybe people should stop whining about high prices in supermarkets; of course, I’m assuming that farmers and ranchers are getting their rightful fair share of the profits so they too can enjoy being part of America’s fading middle class. In any event, I wish that darn armored truck picking up cash receipts three times a day would stop blocking the entrance to my supermarket.
Visiting the robust Household Items section of the supermarket makes it obvious that giant home improvement stores may soon face bankruptcy. At the supermarket, I can buy hand tools, electrical components, paint rollers and, most importantly, duct tape. Thankfully, the supermarket also sells bandages for the self-inflicted wounds I suffer while in the handyman mode.
Contemporary supermarkets also cater to nearly every vice by offering quality booze, fine tobacco, dirty magazines, and even lottery tickets! A guy has to ask himself: why fly out to Vegas when all the ingredients necessary for a decadent lifestyle are so close at hand? By the way, I’m told that one supermarket chain will soon feature a mini tattoo parlor in its stores, with operating hours tailored to accommodate high school students.
It’s uncanny how cashier rest breaks are timed so that there’s only one swamped checkout lane available when I’m ready to pay up, thereby forcing me to use a temperamental self-checkout machine. As I start wheeling my shopping cart away from there, there’s usually a group of idle employees bickering about who is going to work what shift. Naturally, they do pause momentarily to smile and wish me a wonderful day.
The last time I luckily found a short checkout line, an inconsiderate customer ahead of me cashed in 34 coupons and meticulously balanced her checkbook for the week while my melting ice cream dripped on the floor. Likewise, I resent all the untrimmed plumage and leaves being included in my vegetable weigh-in at the register. When I complained to the produce manager, he suggested I create a compost pile in my back yard — brilliant!
Yes indeed, I yearn for those old grocery stores that first hosted Mr. Heinz, Mrs. Butterworth and Chef Boyardee. Prices in that era were wonderful too: loaf of bread 29 cents, pound of butter 30 cents, and a can of soup just 10 cents. Plus, there was no competing with store employees who push wide carts down narrow aisles, urgently trying to fill multiple Internet orders for aristocrats before they arrive in their upscale SUVs.
Sure, my old grocery store wasn’t a super store; it was just a really great place to shop. Mama Celeste, Granny Smith and Uncle Ben would most certainly agree!
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