My Transnational Supermarket Sweep
A Nomad's Dream of Markets, Groceries & Delis
Sometimes one’s subconscious mind offers up a vision that is simply too emblematic not to write down and share. What follows are the details of a recent dream that thoroughly encapsulates my life as the "kitchen witch” half of this duo known as The Epicurean Vagabonds.
Montreal:
I open my eyes and I'm in our spacious, two-bedroom apartment in the artsy neighborhood of Little Italy in Montreal. Inside it is toasty warm, the smell of coq au vin simmering on the stovetop, while outside flurries of bunny-white snow are landing atop the four feet of dirty grey mounds already compacted along the sidewalks. My scarf is on, fur-lined gloves tucked neatly in the pocket of my pea coat for easy access after the door is locked behind me, and a warm black cap sits snugly upon my head. It's that time of day again. My daily shopping excursion.
Into the snow globe I plunge, turning right down Boulevard Saint-Laurent in the direction of the Fruiterie Milano, my first stop for the apéritifs required for tonight's dinner and some items for tomorrow's breakfast. Naturally, I can't get everything I need at the exquisite Italian market and deli, teeming with enormous rolls of mortadella, wheels of aged Parmigiano Reggiano, jars and tins of meats and vegetables swimming in herbs and olive oil, piping hot slices of pizza and chafing dishes of stuffed peppers and polpette al sugo ready to eat. I'll have to sludge and slide over the icy streets a bit further down the Main to get some imported wine at the SAQ and then a quick stop at the Supermarché Latino Mundial for some sparkling water and maybe a bag of spicy chicharrónes with lime.
Thessaloniki:
I awake again, this time damp with sweat under a thin white-and-blue cotton sheet, the dull rumbling sound of the air conditioner running full blast in the living room. When I closed my eyes I was in Montreal, now I'm in Thessaloniki. How the hell did I get here?
It's midday at the end of July, so after a shower and a briki of thick Greek coffee, I decide it's better to brave the sweltering heat to avoid the end-of-day supermarket crowds. Ryan is at his desk between classes and asks if I want to wait until he's done teaching so he can help carry things? Donning my sunglasses, I decline, preferring to get in like Flynn and get the task done before the lines are too long. I'll come back drenched but I don't care.
Down the Via Egnatia I stride, the Arch of Galerius at my back, the blistering sun in my face. First stop is the Masoutis supermarket for some essentials. It's thankfully quiet as I enter and the burly, aging checker (who looks like a drag queen impersonating Irene Papas) smiles at me and says "Yassas!" as she swipes her long mane of jet-black hair over one shoulder seductively. She's obsessed with my rings and flirts with me shamelessly. I fill my basket with cucumber, yogurt and pita for some tzatziki, a package of marinated olives, a small tub of dolmas from the deli and a block of briny feta. After some small talk at the checkout counter with Medea, I head around the corner to Ergon, a specialty shop (and one of our favorite restaurants) of local Greek products, to nab a dozen slices of richly cured pastirma, a few liters of Malagousia and some octopus salad.
Paris:
I went to bed with the sweet taste of baklava and mastika on my lips and now I wake up to the buttery smell of fresh croissants and the tolling of the bell of L'Église Sainte-Élisabeth-de-Hongrie across from our apartment in the 3rd Arrondissement of Paris.
There is perhaps no city in the world where I derive as much divine pleasure shopping for food as I do in Paris. My Lutèce is a virtual cornucopia of culinary options that requires obstacle-course-like precision and skillful maneuvering in order to reap the proper benefits of a fruitful spree.
It's a rather brisk, rainy day in March as I French-loop a checkered scarf about my neck, sling a sturdy parapluie over the arm of my black waist-cut leather jacket and wheel my panier down the Rue du Temple. Past the Elie Wiesel Square, I turn left onto the Rue de Bretagne and within a few minutes, I'm singing “Ave Maria” in my own cathedral – the Marché des Enfants Rouges. An hour later, my panier is brimming with perfect potatoes, plump onions, purple garlic and a wedge of aged Comté for my gratin dauphinois, white asparagus, a baguette à l'ancienne, a big blue-footed poulet de Bresse, rillettes de canard, a few bottles of Carignan and a stinky wheel of Camembert au Calvados (from Fromagerie Jouannault).
Sofia:
Just as I was saying “merci” to the fromagère on the Rue de Bretagne, I suddenly find myself uttering these words to the dour-faced, magenta-haired checker (built like a Cold War tank) at the T Market next to the Shell gas station in the suburbs of Sofia. Naturally, “Tank” didn't bother to return my “merci” - which wasn't unusual. Not because they don't say “merci” in Bulgaria to say thank you (surprisingly, they do), but because she hates me.
For two months, I've been shopping at the T Market. I always come in the middle of the day (with the rest of the housewives) and Tank is invariably the checker. I always bring my own reusable bags. I wait in line patiently while Tank chats exuberantly with all the other ladies in front of me. Then I carefully place my items on the tiny checkout landing (and I do mean tiny) and Tank looks up at me with a blank stare and asks, in Bulgarian, if I need a bag, knowing full well that I bring my own every day. She scowls when I say “ne” and begins to hurl my items into the equally minuscule bagging area. I use my debit card to pay, she scowls again, annoyed at the extra effort required. I say “merci,” as Tank hands me the receipt without so much as a nod of acknowledgment, and immediately begins chatting merrily to the next housewife.
Skopje:
Finally, I wake up in the same place I went to sleep. This time, I'm actually awake and my elaborate dream has left me . . . hungry! I get up, gulp down a glass of iced Earl Grey tea and take a quick shower. We're back in Skopje after a year and it's a hot summer day, so I suit up in my pinstriped shorts and a black short-sleeved button-up shirt, blow dry my hair and set off for the Ramstore Express around the corner from our apartment in Debar Maalo, Skopje.
I'm never sure what I'm going to find in the store. Some days it looks like a food desert - wilted lettuce, rubbery cucumbers and rotting carrots - and other days like the eagle has just landed and there are sumptuous ripe halves of honeydew melon, juicy soft peaches and giant heirloom tomatoes. The one thing I know I can always count on here is that all of the checkers (five stylish older women who are absolutely adorable) are always lovely to me. They all remember me from the last time we were here and never fail to greet me with a “hello” in English and invariably grin when I plop my 3-liter box of white wine down on the counter.
Today, my favorite checker tells me that her daughter, who is studying abroad, is incessantly nagging her to improve her English. She slaps her head repeatedly when she can't remember the numbers to tell me the total of my purchase and I laugh, reminding her that she should feel proud of her English (especially since my Macedonian is equivalent to that of a toddler). And with that, I head home with a bag full of fruit, a box of Tikveš Roze and a plethora of fresh ingredients for a Chinese chicken stir-fry.
I wonder what supermarket I'll wake up in tomorrow?
This needed a trigger warning!! YUM
I love this! So clever and fascinating!