Produce Wars

There are two main streets in my small Southern Italian village, each one way, heading opposite directions, parallel to each other.  And on these two main streets, you will find the majority of the town’s shops.  When we first moved to this town, there was one produce shop on the main street.  I eagerly patronized this shop, happy to be purchasing local, seasonal Italian produce.  As opposed to purchasing produce in an American grocery store, where we fish through piles of fruits and vegetables, inspecting, squeezing, and sniffing until we find the items that are to our liking, in Italy, the shopkeeper waits on you and picks out your produce for you.  The full service, to this American, hints ever so slightly of a delightful mix of luxury and chivalry.  But it could be intimidating too.  I had to know the name in Italian of each item I desired, or else I was forced to wander around the store apprehensively hunting as fast as I could.  With the shopkeeper following me, brown produce bag in hand, I imagine the sight was not far from that of a timid puppy hunting for a place to relieve itself, the impatient owner following it’s erratic path with bag in hand, ready to spring into action when a decision is finally made.  To add to the occasional unease of this process, the shop was often bustling with other customers.  It was hard to know where I was in line (since there is generally no discernible "line"), and even more difficult to politely fend off any well-meaning but utterly incomprehensible chit chat from fellow patrons.

Then another produce shop opened.  It was closer to my house.  It wasn’t as busy.  But it was on the same street, and though not within shouting distance, it was curiously close to the first produce shop.  Do I dare switch?  The original shop contains photos around the cash register of the shopkeeper and his father at various moments throughout their, and the shop’s, history.  I don’t need to speak the language to understand that it is a family business, perhaps passed down from father to son, and that it has been in existence in this spot, providing produce to our village’s citizens, for quite a long time.  Granted, I have no longstanding history with this town, nor hardly any investment, emotional or otherwise, in the original produce shop.  But for an unfortunate amount of time, the sentimentalist in me refused to patronize the new store.  I had no proof that they were a malevolent organization, hell-bent on destroying the family landmark of the original produce shop, but for some reason, that’s the idea I came up with in my head.

Then one day, I needed some produce early in the afternoon for a soup that needed to simmer before dinner.  The original shop was closed for the mid-day break, “riposo.”  The new shop was open.  So this is it, I thought, this is the day I try out the new store; let’s see what they’ve got, these meanie weanies.

And you know what?  I loved the new store!  It’s smaller than the original shop, but if I thought the shopping experience at the original store nudged at chivalry, then this was the knight in shining armor experience of produce shopping.  I was the only customer, and I was greeted by an upper-middle-aged, very typical "Italian Mama"-esque female shopkeeper.  She eagerly jumped up to fill my order, and patiently and slowly asked me simple questions when it was apparent that Italian is not my native language.  When I resorted to pointing and saying, “This” (“questo”) to unknown items, she said the Italian name, then repeated it as many times as necessary until I was saying it correctly.  As she rang me up, she went over each item and said the price, so I knew exactly how much I was paying for everything.  Before she handed me my bags, she came around the counter and told me (again, in slow, patient Italian) that they were open every day of the week and that they sold fresh bread and, when available, fresh eggs.  Then, just as she was doting her goodbyes as I headed, smiling, toward the door, she grabbed an extra fennel (I had bought two) and stuffed it into my bag.  “Offro,” she insisted, (“My treat.”)

How lovely!  How perfectly capitalistic!  How very wrong I was!  I’ve never looked back – this new store is my produce store.  Each time I shop there, it’s either the cheerful woman or one of her equally pleasant young teenage children waiting on me.  Every time the woman is there, she slips something extra into my bag as I’m leaving, sometimes multiple items.  One day, I asked if they carried any of that wonderfully shady-looking homemade wine sold in reused water bottles (of course, I didn’t phrase it that way (as if I had the knowledge anyway!) – I asked for house wine, “vino di casa.”)  She didn’t have any, but a few short weeks later, guess what appeared:  shady water bottle wine!  €3 for a liter and a half.  And it was potent stuff!  Sure made wrapping Christmas presents a lot more fun for Dinosaur and I! !

The original produce shop is still doing well, as far as I can tell.  It is constantly flowing with customers, and I’m guessing that here in family-oriented Italy, if folks have been shopping at that store for generations, it would take an act of God to make them change.  As for me, I’m so happy I took a chance on the new store.  I now have reason to pledge allegiance to my store – the one with superior service and charm.  The one that, unfortunately I will not be able to patronize for generations, but I plan to continue shopping at for my remaining years here in Italy.  And I hope other newcomers to our village do the same.