Three weeks ago I went to a grocery store in the scary part of town.

It is the scary part of town because the men there drive their red cars too fast and put too much pomade in their hair.

It is also the scary part of town because the women there wear their trousers low and their undershorts high. And their undershorts are made of these totally thin insubstantial strips of cloth. So really the word "undershorts" is something of a misnomer. There is a dedicated word for thin strippy undershorts that are visible above the trouser waistline but for the moment it escapes me.

The point is, it is the scary part of town. But the scary part of town is where the inexpensive grocery store is, so that is why I went there. The inexpensive grocery store does not bother with:

1. fresh fish, or;
2. staff who put your groceries in bags for you, or;
3. milk that has not already begun turning into paneer, or;
4. any of that bourgeois frippery.

They sell apples and white bread. They have a whole aisle for individual servings of pudding that do not require refrigeration. Their Miracle Whip outsells their mayonnaise six-to-one.

If you want something to put your groceries in they will give you a dirty wet cardboard box that once held cans of tomatoes and then briefly held broken jars of baby food but has totally had a good wipe with a paper towel so quit your whining, you effete little pansy.

It is a very tough place, the inexpensive grocery store in the scary part of town. Want to know how tough it is?

They sell pickled shallots from Iran. Iran! I know!

Three weeks ago in the inexpensive grocery store in the scary part of town I bought some pickled shallots from Iran.

Then I brought them home and opened the jar and ate six of them. They were pretty good.

The end of the story needs a little work, doesn't it?

Posted by Bret at October 16, 2003 11:38 AM