Once every two weeks or so I take the 52 bus to a large, American-style grocery store in the 16th. I typically spend an hour scouring the store for needed items, and pondering the eternal questions of ex-pat life in France. Is this tomato sauce or tomato paste? What cut of meat does this most closely resemble at home? Am I supposed to weigh this or is it sold by the piece? You knew my life was glamorous, right?
Yeah, sometimes I think they get confused about which food came in the American stuff box and which came in the British stuff box. I generally don’t buy much on this aisle. I know you’re shocked.
After I have had all the fun I can take, I pay lots and lots of money and then go home to wait for my food to be delivered. Eventually a guy buzzes from downstairs and sometimes I pick up the phone and say , “Is that you, Kremer?” but they never seem to get it. So I tell him which floor and within minutes my doorbell is ringing! The delivery guy will have a cart with three or four plastic crates stacked up on it, each containing a huge plastic bag of groceries. Often the tomatoes and peaches are on the bottom, underneath the Diet Coke and laundry detergent. But at least I didn’t have to carry it.
Now if you will excuse me while I have some time alone with my jar of strawberry fluff……