The Art of Grocery Shopping in the Wrong Part of Town

My consistently empty fridge rarely escapes a visitor's scrutiny. While I typically stock a carton of eggs, some frozen green beans, and at least one bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, if all of the grocery stores in the world suddenly shut down tomorrow, I'd be very hungry. Reflecting on this personal habit, I have come to identify its three root causes:

Cause #1:

I do not enjoy cooking alone. I am much more likely to plan a meal in advance when there is a roommate, boyfriend, or house-guest in the picture.

Cause #2:

I have no idea what I want to wear to work tomorrow, let alone what I will want to eat for dinner next Thursday. Which lands me in the not-so-efficient pattern of stopping at the store on my way home from work.

Cause #3, my latest and greatest excuse: 

Enduring a grocery store trip in the city is a major feat. I live on the 17th floor of mid rise apartment, and I typically park 7-8 blocks from my building. That means that to unload my bags, I must endure the following:

1. Park my car in the loading dock

2. Borrow a bellman's cart from the lobby

3. Load my packages onto the cart

4. Wait for the freight elevator

5. Weasel the cart into the elevator, go to my floor, and maze to my door

6. Unload the cart into my apartment, put groceries away

7. Wait for the freight elevator

8. Maneuver the cart back to the lobby

9. Drive 7-8 blocks to an open parking spot

10. Walk back to my apartment

But what happens after the store is only half the battle.

CHICAGO, IL - JANUARY 2012

Days after moving into my apartment, I decide it is time to stock up on those essential items you forget about until you step foot into an empty home. Apartment hunting in 8-degree snowy weather means speedy decision making, especially when a nice hot toddy is waiting back at the hotel. My furniture and boxes are still in a storage unit in Dallas; so things like q-tips, plates, even a pen and paper are a thousand miles away. After several pit stops at the convenient store in my building, I am tired of the high markups. I ask for suggestions on a super store. The handful of people I talk to all have the same response. The one Super Wal-Mart in the city is allegedly too far and too dirty to justify any savings.

Determined and frugal, I type "Wal-Mart" into my map system and discover that it's only 6 miles from home. Easy. Why had people made such a big deal about this? I wonder to myself as I approach my car, knocking the snow off my boots. Ten blocks and 25 minutes later, I am beginning to understand that 6 miles in a city like Chicago is no small feat. The snow is still falling making traffic even more difficult than usual. After 45 minutes in the car, I arrive at Wal-Mart. 

In the 15-parking-spot walk to the door, I encounter a dance off, a high-school hang out, and a domestic dispute. Never a shortage of sights in a Wal-Mart parking lot, I think. I enter the store to find out exactly what kind of neighborhood I am in: a rough one.

I quickly realize that my neighbors' advice could be justified, and develop a strategy to get in and out as quickly as possible. Instead of doing the major stock up I planned, I get a couple of essentials that I would not want to carry down the street. I b-line to the checkout and where I am ignored by Keisha, an associate picking at her neon pink acrylic nails. I say hello twice before she looks up from her manicure. She carelessly begins to scan my items, throwing them to the end of the bagging area. She continues throwing and stuffing, throwing and stuffing, scuffing her feet and smacking her gum the whole time. I look at the bags and notice that she isn't separating them on the rack. Instead of going through the trouble of opening a bag, she is shoving each item somewhere until it weasels its way into place. She recklessly pulls a stack at each turn and places it on top of the carousel. I am now building quite the plastic bag collection and smiling to myself at the scene. She reaches for my next item: a bottle of wine.

Keisha inspects the bottle before heavily returning it to the counter. She lifts her finger shaking it in a zigzag across her body.

"Girrrrrl you know you can't pay for this with your food stamps card, nah-uh." she declares.

I look at her in disbelief, trying not to laugh.

"Oh okay," I respond. "Could I use my debit card?"

Keisha agrees, and finishes my transaction. I trek back to my car and return home to my barren fridge. Maybe next time, I think to myself.