No butts about it
About a year ago, I had a depressing encounter in the meat department of Safeway. I asked the clerk (I refuse to call him a butcher, for reasons that will shortly become obvious) whether they carried pork butt. He stopped short and just stood there staring at me with a bemused expression.
Oh no. Can it really be? Have we deteriorated this far? I waited a few seconds until I was sure what the issue was, and then I plunged ahead.
"It's not the actual butt of the pig. You know that, right?"
"It's not?" he asked, laughing heartily.
"No. It's not." (I am not in the mood for laughs. This is what's wrong with corporate grocery chains! This and citrus fruit that rots one day after you buy it. And a million other things.)
"Ohhh! Well, whatever it is, we don't carry it."
I recalled this incident after enduring another awkward conversation in the checkout line at an Indian grocery store near work. I shop there frequently because everything is cheap and fresh; it appears that their customers actually cook for themselves instead of just opening cans, and thus they demand reasonably priced foods that are not a sunrise away from sprouting a white fur coat. (How I love you, 26-cent-bunch-of-cilantro!)
Also, I come here because I bought an Indian cookbook written by my coworker last year and have been slowly working my way through her recipes. And there's a small part of me that enjoys visiting the store because I feel like an oddity; every time I go in, somebody rushes over to help me navigate my way through my shopping list, curious to know what I'm making. Now that's service! I guess they don't get a lot of white girls who use their lunch hours to gaze longingly at jars of lime pickle.
Anyway, here's how the conversation went down:
Clerk (shyly glancing at me, then my pile of black lentils, spices, and Indian eggplants): Do you know how to cook all this?
Me: Yep, I'm learning. It's not too hard. Hey, do you sell anise seed, by any chance?
Clerk: Anise? How do you spell? (Haltingly.) A-N-U-S?
Me (practically shrieking): NO!! NO! (Regaining my composure slightly.) No.
[Note: I think I freaked out because this is one of my bigger conversational bugaboos. Anise/anus and prostrate/prostate always give me pause. Before I speak them aloud, I literally have to stop, whisper the words to myself, and then proceed with extreme caution to make sure I get them right. Every. Single. Time. My parents still laugh about my teenage mix-up of hover/hoover. In our family, when a bird circles the feeder outside, it's hoovering.]
Clerk (quizzically; completely unaware of his gaffe): Oh?
Me (blushing): A-N-I-S-E. Here, let me write it down for you.
As it happens, they don't sell it. We move on. I pay for my groceries and get ready to leave.
Clerk (very solemnly): I wish you great success in your cooking of this meal.
Me: Thank you!
Oh no. Can it really be? Have we deteriorated this far? I waited a few seconds until I was sure what the issue was, and then I plunged ahead.
"It's not the actual butt of the pig. You know that, right?"
"It's not?" he asked, laughing heartily.
"No. It's not." (I am not in the mood for laughs. This is what's wrong with corporate grocery chains! This and citrus fruit that rots one day after you buy it. And a million other things.)
"Ohhh! Well, whatever it is, we don't carry it."
I recalled this incident after enduring another awkward conversation in the checkout line at an Indian grocery store near work. I shop there frequently because everything is cheap and fresh; it appears that their customers actually cook for themselves instead of just opening cans, and thus they demand reasonably priced foods that are not a sunrise away from sprouting a white fur coat. (How I love you, 26-cent-bunch-of-cilantro!)
Also, I come here because I bought an Indian cookbook written by my coworker last year and have been slowly working my way through her recipes. And there's a small part of me that enjoys visiting the store because I feel like an oddity; every time I go in, somebody rushes over to help me navigate my way through my shopping list, curious to know what I'm making. Now that's service! I guess they don't get a lot of white girls who use their lunch hours to gaze longingly at jars of lime pickle.
Anyway, here's how the conversation went down:
Clerk (shyly glancing at me, then my pile of black lentils, spices, and Indian eggplants): Do you know how to cook all this?
Me: Yep, I'm learning. It's not too hard. Hey, do you sell anise seed, by any chance?
Clerk: Anise? How do you spell? (Haltingly.) A-N-U-S?
Me (practically shrieking): NO!! NO! (Regaining my composure slightly.) No.
[Note: I think I freaked out because this is one of my bigger conversational bugaboos. Anise/anus and prostrate/prostate always give me pause. Before I speak them aloud, I literally have to stop, whisper the words to myself, and then proceed with extreme caution to make sure I get them right. Every. Single. Time. My parents still laugh about my teenage mix-up of hover/hoover. In our family, when a bird circles the feeder outside, it's hoovering.]
Clerk (quizzically; completely unaware of his gaffe): Oh?
Me (blushing): A-N-I-S-E. Here, let me write it down for you.
As it happens, they don't sell it. We move on. I pay for my groceries and get ready to leave.
Clerk (very solemnly): I wish you great success in your cooking of this meal.
Me: Thank you!
posted by cindym at 5:44 AM
11 comments
