February 18 2004, 04:06 PM The Universal Language of Queueing

We are remarkably lucky in where we live that, even though we do not have a large population, we live in a place that has a wide mix of cultures: sufficiently so to bless us with a fair amount of cultural groceries, many of which are within easy range by foot.

I will coin the term 'cultural grocery' here, instead of succumbing to the use of the more widely palated 'ethnic grocery'. I do so because it is fun to make things up. I do so also, because I wish to include in this category the corny, effortlessly common concept of the typical American food market. There is a culture even in those places, starting with the misted displays of produce to prime one's tummy for the high margin items in the cereal box and snack food sections, and ending always with the milk and meat. I do not mind it much, in as much as I understand it, and on the face of it all it's nice to have a place to buy food, so I do not complain. We have a Whole Foods now, too, and we like it very much, cultural baggage and all. But we have much more than that, and we are lucky for it.

We recently went on an exploratory spree to find all the Indian markets within reasonable use of the car. It is an enlightening experience, to find an entire set of shops that sell mostly the same things as each other, in much the way that typical hometown American grocery chain stores do, each a little different. The things that they sell! Isle after isle of completely different ways of eating...

Our current fascination is the highly concentrated collection of Asian markets in the district of the city that also serves as the wholesale food stomping grounds. Again, it is highly enlightening to attend store after store, making note of the patterns, making educated guesses at purchases, bringing it all home to cook, and trying it all over again the week after. Asking people what is good to eat. I would recommend this.

As usual, it is not too long before something astonishing happens. For me, that was a little while ago in our current favorite Asian market (those sands shift with every trip, it would seem) on an extraordinarily busy afternoon. The register lines formed a solid mingled crush out past the vegetables (you buy the vegetables last, yes!) and into the spaces between the banks of coolers filled with refrigerated sticky rice snacks and other assorted sundry that we have not yet managed to sample. The tangled strands of shoppers moved slowly but with patience, and it was some time before I managed to get to the counter.

The counter was quite small, and in an effort to help things along, I began to hand various things across to the woman at the register. With an economy of movement, she somehow managed to convey that if I was willing, it would be even better if I could place items directly on the scale for her. In general, I don't try to help in that sort of way, because it isn't my scale, after all, and I would find that sort of behavior to be presumptive on my part. This is it: I do believe she understood this, and took it into account, for I had no doubts about that part of her intent, and I still do not. It was a nearly perfect delivery of "Oh, just put it on the scale, you timid goof!", lightly done just right.

It was just a wave of her hand; neither she not I spoke one word.

There are other places: Mediterranean markets, and cheese mongers, and the food stuffs of Central America. We have a Central European place, wonderful for its steady lines of supply. They carry red currant jelly, which is a wonderful base for a tart glaze, and they carry gooseberry jam, which is excellent on toast.