Lost in the Isles of Gelson

I went shopping the other day at Gelson’s, a seriously high falutin’ supermarket. They have aisles as wide as Wilshire boulevard, and they’re totally clear of those little kiosks of merchandise that turn a trip down an aisle of Ralph’s into a game of bumper pool. They also have an army of employees who do nothing except patrol those same aisles, and whose primary job is to replace any item you put in your shopping cart with an identical replacement by pulling the same item from the back of the shelf up to the front. You look down the aisle and there are no dents in the product displays. None. The place always looks new. Speaking of carts, as you enter the store they have a germicide wipe dispenser “for your shopping cart” so you can wipe down the handle of your cart. Damn. Now, every time I go to a Lucky’s or even a Von’s Pavillion, I get paranoid about the Ebola virus I am sure is lurking on my cart handle. Ever try to steer a shopping cart with your elbows?

Now, I’m not your typical Westside Gelson’s shopper. For one thing, I’m not a WASP. Looking around the place is creepy. Every one of the shoppers is thin, and blond with skin tight faces, real or altered. Even the Jews that shop there are Wasps. Trust me on this, I am the only one, aside from the Hispanic housekeepers, who looks out of place. Of course the prices are upscale, as they say, which means that next to the meat department, where some cuts sell for $21.49 a pound, is a mortgage broker, where you can float a prime rate prime rib loan, or an equity line of credit for that rack of lamb.

Ok, ok. Here you are wondering “Why is this writer, apparently and actually Jewish, living on a teacher’s salary, walking down these gentiled aisles pushing his sterilized shopping cart before him? Surprise! If you live alone, and are willing to buy most of your stuff in fifty gallon drums at Costco, you can still get the Gelson’s experience by carefully limiting your choices. So, I breeze through the meat department, only fainting once when I glanced at the price on a Rib Eye, and come to at my in-store destination, the Deli section. And some deli section it is, with oodles of delicacies, hot and cold, impeccably displayed in perfect order. They also have a Wolfgang Puck pizza take out restaurant, and a “Chef” standing behind a cart where he carves, upon request, hot prime rib, roast pork, and fresh roasted turkey. That’s my target, the turkey. Enough for a nice dinner for one, with leftovers for lunch avec other teachers tomorrow.

I arrive at the carving station and find myself standing behind a woman waiting for the carving chef to get her order of 2 turkey thighs. While the man with the sharp knives is dealing with another customer, the woman turns to me and says, “The turkey thighs are the best deal in the store, $2.25 each.” Then she lowers her voice and conspiratorially leans in and says, “I get them for my dogs.” I am staring at her, mouth slightly agape, listening to the cart wheels not making noise, and the deli man calling out, “Number 62!” I notice the rock of Gibraltar on her left hand, and her growing realization that I may not be on this line to buy dog food. My fingers resting easily on the germ free cart handle, I realize that I am indeed out of place here in this palace of consumerism. “I want that food for me,” I feel like screaming, “Why don’t you feed some homeless people, for Christ sake?”

But in reality I am struck dumb and paralyzed by the enormous gap that exists between the world this woman walks and the one that houses me. I have no idea how to respond, and it is obvious to both of us that some response is in order. “I have no idea how to respond,” I say, thereby displaying my rapier wit and intellect. We stand silent waiting for the chef to wrap up her thighs (you know what I mean). After she leaves I ask for one of the fresh cut thighs which he dutifully carves out from the bird.

Later, I take my groceries home, unpack, and sit down to dinner with my dogs, they with their dog food, me with mine.