A little over a year ago, I wrote a post about the loss of my favorite produce market, Grower’s Ranch (See Goodbye to a Local Market ). A few days later, I lost my favorite seafood market (Santa Monica Seafood). And then two different Peets. Actually, I’ve lost a lot of favorite shopping places over the years.  Hmmm…  maybe I’m bad luck after all – (“Oh, NOOO, he’s back; we’d better close shop and move to Nome!”  Yeah, that tracks).

You see, I’m a bit of a weird guy (and you’re thinking, “Well, Duh”).  I enjoy going to the market, and drive distances to go to local markets where they get to know me. Heck, if you look back, you’ll see that a fair amount of this blog is devoted to me acting foolishly in public places. I almost always find myself in a better mood when I have a basket of food, a bottle of wine and a plan for dinner.

Which brings me to a rather bittersweet moment. As I said, my favorite seafood market closed. I’ve not really found a replacement, but there are a few stores that I go to. One is a very high-end grocery in Newport Beach; for those unfamiliar, if it is not high-end (e.g. unnecessarily expensive) the locals in Newport will chase them away with torches and pitchforks.

I went in and I immediately saw 2 things: First, Branzino! Yes, I no longer have to go to New York to try to eradicate this fish from existence.

Or, perhaps more to the point, a fellow that I know from Santa Monica Seafood. I believe his name is Marco, but I’m terrible at remembering these things (ask my wife, ummm.. it’s on the tip of my tongue…, Oh, I’m sure my daughter remembers….).  I’d seen him at the seafood shop for over 25 years. And, yes, he’d been subjected to my idiocy when shopping (See  Larry The Lobster.)

He used to manage the seafood counter at Santa Monica and helped me choose out a good piece of fish. I always marveled at how I could ask for, say, a half pound cut off a salmon and get almost exactly a half pound.  As fishmongers go, this guy knows how to mong fish.

Now, he’s working the counter at a grocery store. I’m not suggesting that he is not valuable to the store, but it just doesn’t seem the same. But one thing is this – he remembered me. And he didn’t run away to Nome (population 3,668, 90% of which are old shopkeepers trying to avoid me).

It’s not busy, so we chat. I ask him how he’s doing – “I’m surviving” he says, honestly. We talk about the old place – he misses it and it is being repurposed into a fairly generic seafood restaurant. He is considering working there, in what fashion I do not know and did not ask. After a few minutes he wrapped up my fish, we wished each other well. I’ll hopefully see him again there. Driving home I passed Growers Ranch, Santa Monica Seafood and Peets, where I used to shop. All closed now. Los Lobos was asking “Will the wolf survive?”.  It seemed kinda sad.

But here’s the point. He remembered me.  And he was comfortable enough to be honest with me, to talk to me about the past, to share experiences. We connected, if only for a few minutes.

Which explains, my friends, why I act the way I do in stores.  It is about people. I figure that every time I use a self-checkout line (and I do on occasion), someone somewhere loses a job.

I had a co-worker once who talked glowingly about her ability to order an orange online, have it selected by some kid at the store and delivered to her home. She said something to the effect of “why do it any other way?” 

Here’s why – There is a value in inefficiency. Plus, you get better oranges, or fish, or whatever, from those stores that take the time to pick up produce, give you advice and help you shop.  Marco packed up my fish and he’s out of a job.

I do not understand why we all seem to think we can save time and value convenience over all else. You don’t own time. At the end of the day that time you saved is gone. Better to do things for yourself.

So, I challenge you. 

• Go into your store. 
• Wait in line and ask the clerk how they’re doing.
• Make a joke or talk to others in the line.
• Find a connection.
• Wish them well.

Because you never know if a few years down the road that person may be talking to you from behind a counter. You just might make a friend.