Right, then…anyway.
I ran out to the grocery store this afternoon to get supplies for Fondue Saturday (cauliflower is the latest pleasant surprise). Not only did I have intense sun directly in my face the whole way; I misjudged a “shortcut,” and the trip took twice as long as it should have.
When I finally dragged myself through the doors into the blissful chill, I was all set with my mental list. I knew the likely challenges, of course: I tend to forget coffee, and I haven’t gone to this particular store enough to have ever noticed where they keep their saucisson. I also knew that these were cake, relatively speaking, because the real problem was going to be the Sterno®.
Nick claims to see it in every grocery store he sets foot into, whether he is looking for it or not. I have never once managed to find it. Not ever. Not once. Ever. Not.
I began in the basement (home goods). After combing that floor, with special attention to the candle and the tiny-random-things-you-always-overlook sections, I moved up two levels (dry goods, frozen items, and, well, eggs), scouring every aisle. My misgivings growing, I headed back to the basement to check again, meanwhile beginning to rehearse how I might ask for help.
It’s not as if they call it “le Sterno®,” you know?
By the time I trudged up to the main floor (anything that is kept refrigerated), I had taken to muttering under my breath. “I don’t know the word for what I am looking for, and it is difficult to describe,” I kept repeating. “It’s liquid, sort of, if I want to heat something–you burn it–a gel?” I must have looked fabulous.
The main floor was crowded, though, and when my basket was finally full, it was time to admit that I was not actually going to ask anyone about the Sterno®. There was no way to do so discreetly among all of the shoppers, and there were so many employees bustling around that I just knew that whomever I approached would call in help. It was going to be a whole big thing, and I was done.
I lugged my basket to the registers, and, after a quick check assured me that all of my groceries would fit into the one reusable bag I had brought along, I hopped into the shortest line. That would be the one with the giant electric-green sign hanging over it that proclaims it to be the “caisse nature“–the checkout line for eco-friendly folks like me (or those who, also like me, absolutely loathe the flimsy, sticky little free bags, and enjoy acting morally superior). Unlike the other registers, there are no bags provided at this one, although you can pick up extra reusable ones like mine a few steps away and add them to your purchase to the tune of about 80 cents. In other words, it’s the line you use if and only if you’ve either brought your own bag, or are prepared to buy one. And the aforementioned very visible sign explains all of this.
So why does it seem to be so very difficult?
The woman ahead of me did have a reusable bag–a rather large one, actually. However, she also had a massive amount of food on the belt, and I was really impressed that she was prepared to try to fit all of it into what was, after all, still just one bag.
Silly me.
About three quarters of the way through, her bag was (of course) full. She looked at the empty counter where the disposable bags usually are, and then glared at the cashier. “You don’t have any more bags,” she…well. I don’t want to say “hissed”; hissing came later.
“Well…no,” the cashier said, pointing to the aforementioned massive sign. “There are no bags here.”
“I didn’t see that,” the woman snapped. “Can’t you just grab a few from the next station for me?”
The cashier refused (the next station was closed, and by the way, please refer back to the big neon-ish sign over our heads).
My favorite part in all of the whining that followed was that the customer kept repeating, “But I didn’t see that sign” as if it were an obvious and legitimate reason why she should be exempted from it.
And then it was finally my turn, which was quite unremarkable.
Oh.
Except.
In the middle of ringing me up, the cashier, who had begun eyeing the woman behind me, suddenly leaned over and directed her attention to the same green sign. “You do know that this is the caisse nature and we don’t have bags, right?” she asked as politely as a person reasonably could.
The woman stared. And then glared. “Is that a new thing?” she fumed.
Um…the signs hang from hooks, and they rotate them to different aisles, but…new? Not so much.
“Well, look, you must have one last bag left over back there, right?”
Not so much.
That’s where the hissing came in–as she was clearing her groceries back into a basket (God forbid she buy one of the 80-cent bags that were literally right in front of her) to bring them to a much longer line.
And good riddance.
Oh, and when I finally got home and woke Nick up (napping on the couch to a History Channel download) and told him that he was going to have to make a quick stop on his way to the wine store, he told me what the French call it: “feu liquide.”
Isn’t that so much prettier?