Hoi Polloi: Three Views

I

At the Market

Whenever the weather threatens to turn icy, it’s a near requirement that everyone in our region immediately rush to the closest grocery store to stock up on staples, mostly stuff they probably already have plenty of or never would consider eating. David’s Market, near my home, is a sort of old fashioned style grocery with a decent meat counter and small but attractive produce section. One afternoon, on the brink of the arrival of a norther promising ice and snow, I surrender to the impulse and brave the high winds and thickening clouds and make the requisite expedition for supplies. Not unexpectedly, I find the small store jammed with locals foraging for the weekend.

It’s early in the season, and the novelty of cooking traditional wintertime dishes hasn’t yet worn off. I had earlier decided to try a beef stew that night. Inside the store, shoppers and their carts are double-parked in front of the beef section, so I take my place on the outer queue. A woman is on the inside lane of carts a little behind me. She is somewhere past her mid-sixties, hard-looking, hefty, with doubtfully authentic frowsy red hair that whirls around a thick pair of glasses. She wears a man’s flannel shirt under a pair of bib overalls and a stout pair of muddy work boots. Trying not to crowd her, I crane my neck, try to see over her cart and into the refrigerated bin when she suddenly turns to me with a scowl that instantly turns into a dimpled smile revealing gapped teeth framed by thickly misapplied lipstick.

“Just push on in here, sugar,” she says. “There’s plenty meat for everybody.”

I look around to see if she is addressing me or someone else. She doesn’t move her cart, but waves me to come closer, which is impossible. “Come ahead on. I’m not in no hurry.” In an effort to obey, I allow my cart to bump hers.

“Oh. Sorry,” I say. “Kind of crowded today. Weather, I guess.”

“Yeah. Meant to come by here last night, but got too lazy.” She pushes her cart forward, blocking me entirely from the meat. “See what you need?”

“Just checking to see if they had any stew meat.”

She peers into the bin. “Shoot! There’s plenty stew meat! How much you want?” She hands me a package. “Don’t use that ol’ chili meat. Too fatty.” She sighs. “A good ol’ stew sounds good this kind of weather.” I accept the package from her. “That enough, or you want the two-pounder?”

“Thanks, this is fine.”

“I like it when you use all fresh stuff, meat and vegetables,” she says, looking appraisingly into my cart. “None of that canned or frozen crap.”

I turn my cart into the aisle and start moving away. “I generally do. Use fresh, I mean.”

She follows me. “That’s right. Fresh is better than that canned crap. Sometimes, frozen’ll do.” She stops, takes thought. “Put a jar of beet pickles in mine, though. Sometimes.” I step out briskly, moving away down an adjacent aisle. She follows closely. “You take a little of that package gravy and mix it up with the juice then pour it back in. Thickens it right up. That’s good eating!”

“Uh, yeah.” I reverse course suddenly. “Reminds me. I need some bouillon.” I move quickly around to the other aisle.

She swings her cart around and pushes along right behind me. “Probably just cook me up a burger. I like a good ol’ burger on a cold night. Can’t get a good burger nowhere, no more.” I stop, find the bouillon, put it in my cart, and head out, but the aisle is crowded. Stop and go traffic. She threads her way along right behind me. “They don’t use good meat, and they put all kind of crap on ’em. Salad dressing and ketchup and crap. You know? Don’t even ask if you want it. Just slop it right on. Put the mustard next...