One bit of Americana that does not seem to have caught on elsewhere in the world is the concept of zoning. Thus, immediately behind the gated community of three-story, 4000 square foot homes that I lived in with my husband, stood a row of bleak, pollution-stained apartment buildings; just the sort of thing to pique the interest of an adventure-starved expat. My husband and I were fond of taking morning strolls exploring Shanghai neighborhoods and one morning our stroll took us though these dreary apartment blocks. We came across a mini farmer’s market in progress; not one your weekend farmer’s market attendees back home would recognize. No one was strolling around with a latte in one hand and a NYT Sunday Edition in the other.
It was a small gathering of scruffy vendors with meager offerings and contentious senior citizens tight-fisting their RMB. There were two young boys with a flat-bed cart attached to their bicycle. A few lonely vegetables waited expectantly on the cart for interested buyers. Two elderly ladies were examining the goods and initiating negotiations with the boys.
Another vendor was a marvel of engineering modification. Who knew a 50 cc Honda scooter could aspire to be so much more than merely basic transportation? This scooter had transmogrified into a food delivery and production vehicle. The scooter was mostly obscured by all of its upgrades. Attached to the left rear side of the scooter was a propane tank. Behind it was a large pot with a burner underneath it. On the right side was a collection of cages, many with live chickens in them. Across the seat was a butcher block and a large knife.
There was a fair amount of blood, feathers, and unpleasant looking globs in the vicinity of the scooter; foreshadowing the fowl carnage to come. The vendor smiled pleasantly and nodded as we looked her way. A prospective customer approached her and began looking in the cages, inspecting the flock. Quite a bit of banter was taking place between the chicken vendor and the customer; and amongst the incarcerated chickens. Eventually a chicken was selected and we looked on in morbid anticipation.
Holding the chicken upside down by its feet, the chicken vendor expertly wrung its neck upward. It gave easily with an audible snap. The chicken’s wings flapped uselessly in surprise. As soon as the last spasms of life left the chicken the vendor got to work. Expertly, almost artistically, she cut around the anus and worked the intestines and internal organs out. Some of these she tossed on ground, others she set aside. Now I saw what the hot water was for; using long tongs she plunged the chicken into the water. After removing the chicken she plucked it, placed in a shopping bag along with the saved organs, and handed it to the waiting customer. I sincerely doubt the folks at Tyson’s can top that for freshness.
As fresh as the offerings were at my newly discovered neighborhood market, I still preferred to do my shopping at the big discount supermarket. Though the preference was tenuous. Other than the potential for a line at the check-out, grocery stores back home hold few surprises. In Shanghai, I never knew what to expect.
My neighborhood store was the German-owned discounter Metro. Most Americans have never heard of it, but it is the 4th largest retailer in world. It is a lot like Costco; membership card and all. I like it because I get to shop with a flat-bed trolley. To me the flat-bed says, “Watch out folks, serious shopper here.” Not sure my fellow shoppers saw it that way.
Because it is a discounter specializing in bulk items, many of my fellow shoppers were buying for restaurants. I looked forward to the days I got stuck in line at the checkout behind some guy with several flat-beds of his own full of pork. I am not talking pristine little styrofoam trays with plastic wrap pulled tight over cute little pork chops or thin pork loins. No, I am talking whole pigs, or big chunks of them. No wrapping. What was even better was watching them pitch the pieces into the back of a waiting pickup truck.
You see parts of animals you never realized were edible in Chinese grocery stores. Pigs heads; who eats those? Speaking of heads, they leave them on everything--fish heads, chicken heads. The only heads you see at a U.S. grocery store are green and located in the produce department.
Occasionally, a fellow shopper would take an interest in my intended purchases. And that would not have bothered me so much, if they cleared it with me first. True, I had not actually paid for the items, but they were on my trolley so the intent was there. On one such occasion, a group of ladies surrounded my trolley and began examining items, passing them around, all the while commenting in Mandarin. My limited linguistic skills meant I did not understand what they were saying. But I was profoundly put out that I could not get to my cart because they had it surrounded. Some days, my reservoir of patience is deeper than others. Unfortunately, this day was not one of them. I firmly pushed one of the ladies aside, manned the helm, and steered clear of the gaggle. Much discussion followed me down the aisle. No doubt complaining about my lack of manners.
In addition to all the “raw” food in its nearly natural state, Metro mercifully also stocked unthreatening looking salmon fillets, styrofoam trays and all. As I was perusing the selection I felt something cold and hard pop me in the forehead. I looked up to see a cherubic-faced boy of about 10 years of age across the open freezer from me. He had a victorious smile on his face as he launched another salvo at my head. Another direct hit on my stunned forehead. A stern reprimand from somewhere else in the seafood section and he disappeared. I felt robbed of my retaliatory strike.
Not only do I shop with a list, I order my list according to the store layout. To a control freak like me it makes no sense to list milk and then laundry detergent. No, I cluster dairy products, produce, etc. Often my grocery list resembled my Amazon.com wish list. These were items I was hoping to purchase someday. Given the amount of quality food the U.S. produces, it was more than a little disappointing to find the only U.S. imports when I first arrived in Shanghai consisted of Pringles and Skittles. So I knew when I put Arm and Hammer baking soda on my list that it belonged in the wishful thinking column. So I was pleasantly surprised when I saw the familiar orange/yellow box. True, it was shelved with the cleaning products, but it was there.
While putting my groceries away upon my return home, something caught my eye on my new box of baking soda. What the hey? Arm and Hatchet? I had heard of counterfeit DVDs and designer handbags, but sodium bicarbonate? How could I have missed this? Instead of biceps and a tool on the box I had Dances with Wolves and a weapon. Then I wondered if this white powder really was sodium bicarbonate. While not the best student in my high school chemistry class, I did recall that mixing a baking soda and vinegar should result in a reaction. I whipped out a bottle of vinegar and prepared to conduct my experiment. Success in the form of foamy white bubbles.
Still, I felt sullied. I did not intend to buy bootleg. Could the folks at Arm and Hammer hold me legally liable? Would they retain lawyers like the Recording Industry of America? Unwilling to become another victim of the U.S. litigious machine I sent Arm and Hammer an email stressing that I was not complicit in any transaction intended to defraud their venerable company. They did not respond. Fine Kemosabe. I used the whole box, guilt free.
No comments:
Post a Comment