Love on the Shelves

Love on the Shelves.

We live in a wired global village, connected by astonishing technology and advanced communications on every level. We are texting, emailing, skyping, blogging, googling and face-booking each other like never before. Which is all very good. It’s an instant frontier-less electronic world with no room for Luddites. Yet that occasional nagging feeling of loneliness, isolation and alienation still persists. The capitals of the world are filled with lonely single people trawling the aisles of supermarkets after work clutching meals ready to eat for one. Pubs all over the UK are closing down as rising prices and a slothful couch potato culture convinces people to buy beer and cigarettes at the supermarket and stay at home on Friday nights anaesthetized by the television. This is in my mind a disturbing trend because most of us are after all social animals who need occasional face time, social interaction, conversation and frequent meaningful encounters with other like minded human beings, not with a flickering screen.

Let’s forego the fleeting consolations and temptations of the material world for a moment and turn our attention to something more enduring and meaningful like love and food. What about finding meaning in love, if only for a brief shining moment? It may sound old-fashioned but like Byron and the poets of the Age of Romance, we are still in love with the idea of being in love or falling in love. The internet and speed dating has not eroded that impulse. To use loathesome corporate jargon it has possibly just “facilitated” matters and picked up the pace dramatically, as speed becomes the new god. In this age of “networking” and socialising at a safe distance, everything it seems, can be facilitated, even match-making and love.

So if you’re a single predatory continental male whose mother has finally left you, where do you find love? In church, at work, in the newspaper, the internet, singles bars or the local Irish theme pub? Possible but unlikely to yield promising results. It reminds me of the lyrics of the popular song by Waylon Jennings that goes:

“I was looking for love in all the wrong places.
Looking for love in too many faces.”

How about looking for love in the most unlikely of places, your local supermarket? Strange choice you might say to seek love among the lettuces and radishes. Not strange at all I maintain. It’s perfectly normal. Let’s go back in time for a moment to the pre-electronic age. In the eighteenth or nineteenth century, social and commercial activity centred around the town square or village market.

You’re the local duck breeder, a strapping young lad who has recently taken over his fathers duck farm. You take your ducks to the market and hope to exchange them for delicacies of the day such as frog legs confit, pickled eels, salted herring paste and a tub of lard. Your identity, credentials and ultimately your status is established by your reputation as a duck fattener, rabbit breeder or pigeon mater and not by the clumsy wooden boats covering your feet or the size of the wheels on your cart. You stroll to the market square and catch a glimpse of farmer Gabriel’s ripening but somewhat robust daughter, Rosamunde, standing behind their wooden stall, helping him sell buckets of butter. With Rosamunde helping dad, butter sales increase dramatically. You instantly forget about the tub of lard and decide that you’ll settle for buckets of butter instead. You take in the fact that her flaxen hair is pleated in the rather dated but nonetheless pleasant Viking style. Although you’re practical and not really the Don Juan type, your head is filled with poetry. A mere two lines by Yeats but they are apt on this occasion:

“Who could love you for your self alone and not your yellow hair?”

You note that she has a mischievous glint in her roving eyes and she fills her summer frock in a most comforting and convincing way. She is pleasantly plump with rosy cheeks and imparts a healthy air of sturdy farmhouse sensibility. You feel a feint stirring in your loins and your mind inevitably drifts to barns and haystacks.

Today we want our duck cushioned on a bed of polystyrene. Love and our tomatoes either wrapped in cellophane or purchased with plastic, so we go to our local supermarket for chance encounters, sustenance and sometimes relief. The idea of finding love in the aisle then does not sound so ludicrous after all. We now have plethora of blog sites called “Supermarket Love Affair” and we even have supermarket love songs. The number of people living on their own has exploded all over the world and a friend tells me that in Paris, the City of Light and unrequited love, close to half of all city residents are divorced singles searching for love. It’s not surprising then that some supermarkets, along with their two for one specials on fabric softener and Kleenex, occasionally play Cupid by introducing singles nights and promoting merchandise honouring Eros, the god of love.


If that is not your idea of fun then you could order your groceries and your women online and have them delivered to your doorstep. But think of all the tantalising possibilities out there to commune with total strangers among the fresh produce. Think of all the potential encounters and future domestic liaisons you could be missing. The safe sex imperative has put paid to any ideas of liaisons dangereuse, so the supermarket is as safe as it gets nowadays. Striking up a conversation with a complete stranger in a supermarket seems effortless, innocent and far less offensive than trying to chat up someone in a bar, where especially women are naturally suspicious of men’s intentions. How can you not smile at the bewildered man holding a tub of cottage cheese?

I know a middle aged professional who is a spur of the moment kind of guy. He’s in a high pressure job involving demanding clients and lots of deadlines. He often sues people who buy things they don’t need with money they don’t have. He decides at the last moment what he’s going to have for supper. He craves the very things that his job deprives him of; freedom, flexibility and spontaneity. An innocent question involving the mere hint of forward planning such as:

“Let’s have a braai next Saturday at my place after the rugby game?” will elicit a fierce indignant bark:
“Next Saturday? How the hell do I know if I’m going to be alive next Saturday?”

What hubris on my part to dare to suggest something in the near future and tempt the capricious gods! Greek mythology is full of tales of human misery and woe, of spiteful gods meting out swift retribution upon us mere mortals at the slightest provocation.

Our Adonis goes to his local Woolworths religiously every day between 5:30 and 6pm because that’s when the single working women pop in after a day at the office to buy victuals before going home to their cat. He believes Woolies attracts the more upwardly mobile females that he finds worth propositioning. He only goes to Checkers to buy toilet paper and detergents and pops in quickly at times when it’s unlikely that anyone who knows him will spot him.

One day while shopping at Woolies he spotted a dark mysterious brunette at the end of the aisle nearest to the entrance. He followed her all the way to the breakfast cereals and beyond. He walked towards her to get a closer look, slowing down to loiter near her as she stood next to the free range eggs. His eyes swept up from the floor near her high heels, taking in the contours of her finely turned stockinged calves and finally rested on the contents of her shopping basket. He observed that she had selected a baguette, a small tub of low fat feta cheese and a six-pack of fat free flavoured yoghurts. He looked up and noticed her smooth alabaster skin and the fabric choker around her slender neck. The narrow black choker drew attention away from her modest chest area and emphasised her delicate facial features. He could not understand the maternal fixation most men seem to have with large breasts. He was different in this regard. The choker pleased him immensely. He had a thing for women wearing chokers. We could go into some depth here psycho-analysing this particular fetish but that would require a PhD and several chapters in a book written by Dr Phil. Did it mean for instance that the complete lack of control and feelings of helplessness in his private affairs meant that he needed to dominate or control attractive females? Did the choker represent submission to his will? Was it a dog collar or a slave collar? We’ll never know for sure, his mind a perplexing labyrinth of possibilities. Needless to say he was instantly smitten.

He watched her as she slowly opened a carton and picked up each egg in turn, holding each one up to the light, rotating and carefully scrutinizing them for invisible flaws as if her life depended on it. At least she was thorough. She could be inspecting diamonds. But today she was a self-appointed egg inspector and she was in search of perfection. He was mesmerised. He was intrigued and curious. He decided to strike up a conversation with her:

“I notice you open all the egg cartons. What are you looking for?” he asks.
“Clean eggs”, she replies. “I like my eggs clean. Sometimes you get feathers and fluff in the cartons,” she adds before walking away.

What did she think? Eggs don’t come out of some sterilised Swiss made incubator with a stainless steel tube attached. They come out of a chicken’s anus. Regardless he continues to visit Woolies every evening at the same time hoping to catch a glimpse of his mystery woman again. He says she is his little truffle. Dark, rare, delicate, hard to find and sought after by connoisseurs.

Another serial aisle stalker confesses that he prefers to go to the supermarket, he’s a dedicated Spar man, on a Saturday afternoon between 3 and 5 pm because that’s when most other men are either playing golf or guzzling beer in front of a TV screen watching their favourite sport. This he believes significantly improves his chances of meeting a bored attractive house wife usually at the deli counter. He watches his fellow female shoppers for vital clues. He looks for sensual women who linger at the fruit and vegetables. They must softly touch and feel what they buy. They must caress their papayas before placing them gently in the shopping basket. If they grab a bag of potatoes and throw it into their trolley, that’s a fatal flaw and he avoids them. He once lived in a cold northern country with a monarchy, where some supermarkets strategically place a selection of beers next to the Pampers nappies. He couldn’t make the connection and thought it had something to do with breast feeding. The logic however is simple. Women buy nappies, see the beer and being considerate creatures eager to please, buy beer for their husbands or boyfriends. He avoids these aisles and would never be seen holding a broom or mop.

Some experts suggest that first glances count a lot in the world of supermarket love. So what should you have in your trolley or basket to create a favourable and lasting first impression? Some say you should go for suggestive items like sparkling wine, chocolates, fresh cream and flowers. Others recommend colourful tropical or exotic fruit to convey an image of healthy and vitality. Strawberries somehow always manage to look good and liven up many a drab looking shopping basket. It’s a seductive argument but not necessarily true. Most items will do as long as they’re not frozen peas and tins of baked beans. In fact in your quest for love it’s best to avoid the tinned and frozen food section altogether. I’d also avoid the self-service olives counter at Greek supermarkets. A huge selection of green and black olives is displayed in large overflowing wooden barrels. They come in different sizes and flavours, Kalamata, shrivelled black and giant green. Tasting as many varieties as you like is not obligatory but recommended. It’s hard to chat someone up who is munching on giant crushed garlic infused olives and spitting the pips into a plastic tub.

Regrettably I’ve only had a few vaguely interesting encounters with women shoppers at supermarkets. My hunting instincts long gone, I am a caged predator without teeth waiting for the zookeeper. I once had a brief encounter at Checkers while trying to buy dishwashing powder. I grabbed the familiar brand in a yellow plastic bottle that my wife always buys. Then my eye caught a far more attractive blue and red label that was on special promising sparkling glasses and offering more value. I picked it up and put the yellow bottle back. I read the label and it said that it had “added salt” and lemon for more effective washing and rinsing. I was not convinced. A pleasant looking mom with short brown hair stood next to me. I was unaware that she had been watching me. She gave me a disarming smile and asked which one I preferred. I reasoned that the added salt meant less washing powder to cut costs and was probably a gimmick. I grabbed the yellow bottle and said old habits die hard.

I had a more meaningful experience one December in a supermarket near Athens.
I stood staring at a bin of frozen turkeys trying to read the labels. I was confused and undecided. There were too many choices. There were so many turkeys to choose from; imported from the UK, France, Belgium and even as far a field as the USA. Men never want to stop and ask for directions and are reluctant shoppers whereas women are forever curious and chatty. Women also willingly ask for recommendations. In no time a woman had struck up a conversation with me and was asking me of all people which turkey she should buy. I had no idea but mumbled something about it being better to buy fresh and support local Greek farmers. This answer pleased her. She wanted to adopt me. I spoke fluent Greek yet she could tell that I was from the diaspora. I was too polite and hesitant it seems to be Athenian.

Soon a group of marauding Greek house wives on patrol had gathered around us eager to pick up some tips, offer unsolicited expert advice and enter the heated debate about the merits of European versus American turkeys. An instant symposium ensued. No conversation about turkey is complete without mentioning the stuffing. Here too the old style democracy of the agora prevailed with many voices clamouring to be heard. A cacophony of competing opinions and recipes ensued. “I only use mince meat and pine nuts! proclaimed one agitated Helen. “No, I never use rice and sultanas in my stuffing, I always use breadcrumbs.” Said another siren of the salon. They were formidable Amazons of the kitchen, confident and strong willed, backed by age old custom, precedent and tradition. I pitied the poor Stavros back at home washing the dishes. I slipped away unnoticed from the rising din in search of Greek coffee and quiet blissful solitude at a side walk café.

The express check out till at Woolies once held initial promise on a Sunday morning. A bundle of newspapers was stacked nearby. I scanned the headlines while I patiently waited in the queue. The headline in the Sunday Times was about Jacob Zuma and his pending corruption trial. A woman behind me remarked: “He should be ashamed of himself!” And he wants to run for President? It’s a disgrace! In any other country he would step down immediately!” My ears perked up. The usual conversations in Hout Bay are predictable. People including me usually talk about sport, the weather, schools, dogs or horses. I was starved of intelligent banter, social commentary and political dialogue. I tried to universalize the woman’s concerns. “It’s not just Zuma,” I said, “they’re all the same. Politicians all over the world are corrupt.”
She spotted the sliced cooked ham I clutched in my hand and said abruptly, “you’ve just reminded me of something I need to get. Nice talking to you,” and off she rushed towards the jam section, leaving me behind looking slightly bemused.

On another occasion I was day-dreaming among the biscuits at Woolies. I was deep in thought, feeling peckish and fully absorbed by the sight of muffins and chocolate brownies. I turned around quickly and crashed into someone’s grandmother, impaling her bosom with my elbow. I apologised most profusely and in my best East Rand English accent said:
“I’m terribly sorry Ma’m.”
“That’s quite all right young man,” came the quick reply. I quite enjoyed that. If I were only thirty years younger!”
I smiled politely and sought refuge in a pile of croissants.

They arrive at the meals ready to eat aisle at the same time. He’s tall and confident. He has designer stubble, wears a pink and white striped shirt, black pin stripe suit jacket and dark designer jeans. His fashionable pointy shoes are saved by a small square toe line. She’s a mildly flustered blonde in a cream coloured three quarter length trench coat and black boots. Although it’s dark outside, her Bulgari sunglasses are perched on her head. He has a bottle of red wine in his basket. She has a bottle of Chardonnay and a packet of almonds in hers. They scan the shelves looking for inspiration. He reaches for the beef ravioli. She picks up the cheeky chicken casserole, changes her mind and finally opts for the creamy butternut and sage panzerotti. Their eyes meet. She hesitates. He squeezes the handle of his basket and finally asks her: “your microwave or mine?”


Costas Ayiotis

Meditations, Observations & Reflections from the Republic of Hout Bay

11 September 2008