I made my pilgrimage to the new sixty-six thousand square feet Whole Foods (sometimes called Whole Wallet) out there on east Pearl Street. It's gigantic and, to my semi-ancient eyes, exotic, especially when compared to the corner groceries of my youth. Five hundred varieties of cheese, not one of them Velveeta Processed Cheese Product. An olive bar. Sushi, arugala, radicchio, tofu, tofutti, orange roughy. Herb-encrusted tilapia. Hundreds and perhaps thousands of foods that had not swum into my ken, or anyone's ken, back there in 1950s Flatbush. Eating has changed, and so has food-shopping. Nothing Norman Rockwell-y about Whole Foods. No kids clutching their hard-earned quarters, salivating at the candy counter.
When I was a small boy, my mother would occasionally send me to pick up an item or two at Mr. Fox's musty three hundred square foot grocery on Ditmas Avenue. A quarter of a pound of salami, perhaps, or some Del Monte sliced peaches in heavy syrup. When I stood at the public side of the wooden counter, I was too short to be visible to Mr. Fox so I either had to jump up and down and wave my hand, or wait until a full-grown customer would politely point downward and say, "I believe he's next." "I'm sorry, sonny. Vat can I do for you."
Mr. Fox was a broad-faced, heavy-bearded, jowly individual who smelled of pickles and sauerkraut. Mrs. Fox was, to use the current euphemism, "ample" or "comfortable." Memorably ample. It's hard for me to imagine how they made a living out of that tiny shop, but in fact they were probably no poorer than anyone else in our immigrant neighborhood.
The assignment to fetch something from Fox's Grocery was always stressful. I remember one time when my grandmother, who lived around the corner from us on Coney Island Avenue, was getting ready to cook up several score of blintzes for an extended family get-together. I was sent to buy two pounds of "farmer's cheese." Mr. Fox refused to sell it to me. "No one buys two pounds of farmer's cheese." I could not persuade him and returned home mortified and empty-handed. A shopping failure. At Whole Foods, there's no one to decline a purchase. Nor any unaccompanied minors, for that matter. Children don't go out alone, much to their loss.
(A note to my grandchildren, who will be incredulous. At Fox's Grocery, there was no scanner or computer or adding machine. Mr. Fox knew the price of everything in the shop. "How much for a can of beans, Mr. Fox." He would gather your items (no "self-service" in those day), set them on the counter and then, in a thick pencil, list the prices on the side of the bag. And then (I know this is unbelievable) total up the figures, by hand, mumbling all the while. Not only that -- he was paid not with a credit card, but with "money." Honest to Pete.)
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