In Horio, as you might know, we have three very good supermarkets. Except they are ‘super markets’, unless, that is, you are an officious holiday rep supervisor who once insisted the rep tell the guests they are ‘mini’ markets. Whatever. One of them, closest to us, is Sotiris’ Super Market, a place known for its frivolity, cats and caged birds. It’s the sort of place where the cleaning products encroach on the wines, and sometimes this or that is there or there, and next time over there, and mind the boxes on the floor, and ‘Hey Mrs, do you want a cucumber with that?’ Because you are never very far away from a double entendre at this shop, and I am sure some people only go for the entertainment. It’s also the kind of traditional place where you don’t need to use a basket. Instead, you wander about collecting seemingly random objects which you then place on the counter with everyone else’s oddments, and block up space while you go a wandering again. Alternatively, you can use a basket.
The last time H and I went shopping in Pappou in Kanadas Street was either late 2020 or early 2021, when we were obliged to wear masks. On entering the supermarket that time, H admitted to me that he was scared, and I don’t think he meant of covid. I think he meant because of the size of the place.
It’s still just as big, but this time, there was no fear. ‘I will need a trolley,’ he declared, and not only because, unlike in Horio, you can use a trolley, but because he had a shopping list made some weeks ago, and there was a lot on it. First, though, ‘How do I get this out?’
Supermarket lesson one: You put a Euro in the slot, and pull. There you go. ‘How does that work, then?’ Simple lesson in mechanics followed.
Inside, via the automatic doors, and it’s first on the list: bread for toast. What a choice. Too much of one. Advice: buy a double, as they are in two halves, and you can freeze one half. It’s also cheaper. Done. Moving on, I was tempted by the abundance of Tetley tea but declined as this wasn’t about me. The next item, ‘one tomato’ was on the other side of the super supermarket, so more advice came, and this time it was to go up and down each aisle, pausing, a) to think if there is anything on the list in that aisle, b) to get in the way.
Things became more successful after that. ‘I need ice.’ That bag won’t fit in your freezer. Buy an ice cube tray and you will never run out, nor need to run home with a bag of ice melting down your trousers. ‘Is that aisle all children’s things?’ I doubt it, mate, those are tampons. Mind you, you could invest in some adult nappies and never again have to get up during the night. (I got a filthy look at that point.) On to the fresh veg.
Now, here’s a thing. Up here, you put what you want in one of many plastic bags and have it all weighed, with one person shouting out the price across the shop floor, and George saying, ‘What? Speak up,’ and Sotiris or whoever, saying, ‘Turn your hearing aid on. Hello, Mrs. Need a cucumber? Fwah, fwah.’ You’ll not be surprised to learn things work differently in the real world. ‘Do I put them all in the same bag?’ No, because they are not all the same price. One tomato here, a different bag for the potatoes. ‘Which are best?’ Well, those ones are covered in mud, and those ones aren’t, so it’s up to you, but as you only have the bathroom sink to wash them in at present, I’d go for those… Do you need a cucumber? ‘Yes.’ Godfather holds up two in a most impolite fashion, one big and one small. Are you a size queen or don’t you mind? ‘That one, and shut up…’ And so on, with several trips back to the nice lady (one pepper), and the fresh veg was done and priced. ‘Oh, I need a garlic.’ The nice lady didn’t even bother with a bag for that one, she just stuck the price tag on my hand as if my godson’s shopping style was my fault. And back to the list.
‘A tin of tomatoes.’ You could have said earlier… Back to the other side. ‘Mince.’ Off to the butchery counter, and a wink from Sotiris’ cousin who works behind it. ‘What do I ask for?’ Whatever it is you want. (Children must be made to read more books, and does no-one play ‘shop’ anymore?) ‘Mince.’ Then ask for kima, you’re the one who’s fluent in Greek. ‘How much?’ Kilo, half? ‘Half.’ Don’t tell me, tell him…
Then, there’s the checking out. Card or cash? Phone, of course. Do you have a loyalty card? ‘Do I?’ I doubt it. ‘Next time.’ Do you want a bag? ‘Yes, please, four.’ (Note: a decision of his own making.) Here’s a thing we pondered. Having collected veg and fruit in individual bags, and bought bread in plastic wrappers, milk in a plastic carton, and cheese that’s been put through a laminator, we’re then charged for plastic bags? To add insult to injury, we have to pack the bags ourselves. ‘It’s not Sotiris’ place, is it?’ No, and don’t put the eggs at the bottom.
This might make H sound like he doesn’t know what he’s doing, when he does, of course. He’s quite capable of shopping and cooking, but there sure is a large adjustment to make from Sotiris’s cucumber and entendre super market to driving your first supermarket trolley while making your own decisions in a place that gives too many choices compared to where you have always lived. We came out with everything needed, though I couldn’t find an ice cube tray, and it was back to the room, up the six flights of stairs, this time carrying one tin of tomatoes, one pepper, and a cucumber (large).
