Inside-your-head voice.

Recently, I was at the local upscale market buying yet another piece of a really rezent Alpcheese they've had in stock for the past month. It's really lovely, and, for us Americans, really nicely priced. The CH cheeses we usually see here tend to be both fairly uniform and super costly. I'd say the norm for such cheese is anywhere between $25.00 and $30.00 per pound. This particular market was selling, in my opinion, its finest CH cheese for about 12 bucks a pound. To be honest, I think that they must've received some freebie wheel o' cheese and just priced it at whatever to get it off the shelf quickly. Well, it worked. I've been buying it up something fierce. They other day I went in and noticed that all of the smaller wrapped portions had sold & a half wheel sat on display (just waiting for me).  I asked at the deli counter if they could cut off a portion. As the young woman was slicing the cheese, she said to her colleague, a man standing directly opposite me, 'EWW, THIS CHEESE STINKS!'  What a class act. 

I am inspired to share an older post from when I first moved to Manhattan some years ago. Apparently, staff training is lacking on both coasts. Ha.

From January 2011---

Keep it to yourself....

really.

So, I've been knocked out by a really horrible cold for the past two days. Today, I've finally found enough energy to shower, get dressed, and go the local supermarket to buy some much needed food. Not that doing any of this has been easy. Just the act of putting on clothes and blow-drying my hair made the back of my neck sweat. And, it doesn't help that we're on some sort of "blizzard alert" today. It's been snowing for the past five hours, and I'm waiting for cars to "go missing" under piles of white.

Armed with shopping bag, wallet, and, in case I get lost in the snow, cell phone, I make my way to the nearest, but certainly not best, store. When I moved here last December, I couldn't pronounce the name of this place. It's spelled, G-R-I-S-T-E-D-E-S, and I thought it was called, "Gristeeds." I soon learned, as any local will tell you, that people here call it, "Gris-tee-dees." Three syllables that are synonymous with overpriced product and crap service. Not just crap service, like you find at many other markets, but, like, workers-being-extremely-thoughtless service. Maybe it's just another NY thing that I don't understand.

After using all of my energy going up and down all the aisles trying to find fixings for chicken noodle soup--since I hate shopping here and try to come as infrequently as possible, I never remember where shit is--and some other food staples, I make my way to one of two checkers open. I soon see and hear that they are having what should be a private conversation with each other above the heads of the customers whom they're helping. Their talk is loud and off-putting. The chick who's scanning my food, at one point, picks up the sausages that I'd remembered to buy for the boyfriend and says to her co-worker across the aisle, "Uhhhh, don't these look like intestines? Gross!" I'm thinking: That's my food, bitch. But wanting not to cause a small scene by saying anything, I keep a thin smile on my face as I pay for the food and get the hell out of there. Sometimes, I find, it's best to keep one's mouth shut and just get on with it, and, really, the checkers at Gristedes should do the same.