The Scottish Exodus

Grocery Day

26 October 2000
Merchant City, Glasgow

Shopping at the Tesco today was unusually brisk. We had to wait until after 5 p.m. because McCabe didn’t finish class until then; he uses our flat as a base camp for carting his victuals back up the goddamn hill. Normally, this would be a detrimental strategy, for Tesco’s after 4 p.m. is usually a madhouse of urban professionals and trendy students and the bevy of mean grandmas jostling their way around the cramped store like it’s the 1980s again and Norma Rae has just burst forth from the cabbage patch. Another wonderful example of absent-minded Britons invading your personal space; just don’t drop the soap.

Today was different. The store wasn’t nearly as packed, and you actually had space to breathe. I don’t know why; it just was. McCabe, Andrea and I entered the store, grabbed the little metal hand baskets (except for McCabe, who needed a whole rolling basket, of which there are perhaps three in the whole store), and parted ways. Our shopping strategies are different, you see. McCabe hunts for staples—pasta, potatoes, cheese (never forget the cheese), soup, bread, oatmeal, and beer—and does so with a single-minded efficiency as only he can. Bulk is the byword, in order to minimize future trips and reduce costs. This fits in consistently with McCabe’s rather Bohemian lifestyle—simplicity forces discipline while access encourages excess. He brings with him a rucksack with padded support—for hiking, of course—so he can tramp back up the goddamn hill, as if bringing tins of chocolate and cigarettes to the natives of Tibet.

Andrea and I shop on the comfort principle: whatever makes Andrea feel comfortable and at home we buy. We shop consistently and with purpose. Nothing is purchased without a reason, but all is within the bounds of possibility. We actually have a menu made out for the next half-week of so, something alien to our U.S. mentality of stockpiling food, remnants of Cold War paranoia and rampart materialism perhaps? Just for your information, we’re having Pizza tomorrow, grilled cheese and tomato soup Saturday, jambalaya on Sunday, and cream of corn soup in a bread bowl with salad on Monday.

This isn’t as easy as you think it is. We have to shop at least twice a week because of the mini-refrigerator we have. Little things aren’t the same. Tomato paste is tomato puree, or at least we think so. Try finding vanilla extract or A-1 steak sauce. Ever heard of vinegar prawn-flavored crisps? I didn’t think so. Most grocery stores in inner city Glasgow have predominantly shifted over to pre-made and easy-quick meals for the urban professional on the run. The home baking section of Tesco, which includes canned goods and whatnot, could fit in my closet at my mom’s while the pre-made food section, dominated by Indian, Chinese, Italian, and Tex-Mex, is two-thirds of the floor space (the other third is alcohol).

Our own preferences also make the whole process ludicrous at times. Andrea must have fresh vegetables at all times, a habit from her mother. I must have Evian water, a habit from ill health and mental neurosis. Andrea laments the lack of maple syrup here while I go and actually find the damn stuff in a shanty store/bakery in Brodick at a whopping £3.50 ($5 or so) for a tiny imported bottle of Canadian brown gold. I must have a few cans of Coke and Diet Coke around for liquid refreshment variety. Andrea has bizarre cravings for wine, feta cheese, and vinegar (no, she’s not knocked up).

All in all, we’ve budgeted roughly £50 a week for food, roughly the equivalent of $80 or so. For a couple, it’s rather pricey by U.S. standards but fairly balanced here. Most weeks, we have left over, which then carries along like a credit; we expect to keep under £200 or so a month regularly. Mustn’t forget the cheese after all.

---drew, you try stockpiling food with a refrigerator the size of a pillow case…

Copyright ©Andrew D. Devenney, 2009, all rights reserved.