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Magazine
EXPERIENCE
Shopping flavours
PREM KISHORE
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Shopping in L.A. is a different experience; it is a conduit to different cultures and civilisations.
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PHOTO: AFP
From the gardens of the world: Organic food at a supermarket.
THE first time I entered a supermarket in Los Angeles, I stood transfixed. Shelves and shelves of bread. White, brown, grain, cheese, potato, rye, pumpernickel, garlic, olive sage, French, bagels, rolls, sunflower, Ezekiel ( it had a Bible verse from the Ezekiel chapter printed on the wrapping). I had never seen such sumptuousness in the humble bread category.
I could not wait for weekends. No, I did not rush to the sun-kissed beaches of Malibu, the snow-ridged mountains of Big Bear, the silence of the Mojave desert, or even the treasure trove of malls. My delicious destinations were the American grocery stores where I was pampered with privacy and luxury. No one nudged me along as I gazed in silent rapture at glistening rosy apples, brilliant purple humungous brinjals (eggplants) well-scrubbed lusty potatoes, the compelling array of canned soups, the surprises in the meat section: gizzards, ribs, steaks, the varieties of pristine fish from Alaska. I even swooned over the sweet, crunchy and gloriously green perfect peapods. Oh, I savoured the good life and was in pursuit of passion at the gleaming, slick, hushed, superbly lighted grocery stores. Some were suffused with mood music, polished, wood floor boards, a mellow fragrance of baked goodies, and strategically placed profusion of flowers.
Renaissance, of sorts
Suddenly, I have been transformed. I have spun around 360 degrees. In effect it is a gastronomic renaissance. I have become the kind of householder who would pay to rent the Brazilian jaboticaba trees, where I imagine, I would picnic under the spreading branches and crunch the small, purple-skinned delicacy, the translucent pulp and maybe take some home to make homemade wine. And there you have it. Homemade. I want and crave the elemental stuff. Ethnic markets have spiked an insatiable appetite in me. So on weekends, instead of cruising indolently through slickly-packaged grocery stores, glazed tile roofs, and arcades Americana style, I wend my way through another kind of shopper's paradise.
First stop Family Market. What could be more communal than the name? This one is owned by Iranians, a huge sprawling warehouse filled with wooden tables bowed down with the weight of crates.
Oh, the animation of it all. The bustling crowds, the cheek by jowl camaraderie from diverse communities: Vietnamese, Korean, Chinese, Indian, Hispanic, Russian... after all, Los Angelenos speak around 100 languages. It does not matter when a hard, sharp, steel cart is pressed against my hipbone by an aggressive shopper as she leans across my shoulder to capture a luscious pomegranate. This is the real deal I tell myself. As I reach out for a golden yellow ripened papaya. The produce flows endlessly. No sooner than a crate of fragrant coriander, six for a dollar is empty, the young Hispanic teenager trundles up and speedily unloads another crate of the fresh green leaves. Never is a crate allowed to be empty for more than a second. I move along, filling up with apricots fresh from the farms, lettuce and cabbage, mint leaves and organically grown berries and cherries, stock up on cheeses from Iran, Bulgaria and even Switzerland, pickles from India, japotle from Mexico. The floor is scuffed, the lighting is cold and harsh, the aisles are maddeningly narrow but everyone is cheerful, strangers pick up a conversation over the merits of a mango and I am asked by someone what lentils are good for a salad. There's variety enough for every taste and the prices are a steal. It does not matter that the parking lot is tacky, and I have to deftly manoeuvre through trucks loaded with produce coming in or leaving through the rusty gates. I am exhausted but surfeited.
Next stop, I am still buzzing, a Halal meat market where the tiny shop manned by a friendly smiling proprietor from Armenia helps me select the fresh, cleanly cut chicken and lamb asking about the family and wishing me Khuda Hafiz.
Off I go to the Korean market, scrupulously clean but filled with wafting fragrance of coffee, Korean cookies and steamed noodles in the tiny cafes. Alongside is a flamboyant display of orchids, the pots lavishly decorated with organza by a deft Korean artist. I order the excellent shrimp and halibut, sliced carefully by the Korean maestro wielding the knife and gaze entranced at squid, octopus, oysters, mussels, and fascinating sea creatures I have seen only on Discovery Channel. The family loves Korean cookies and tantalising soups of interesting flavours, so I pick them up as well as a few strings of red and yellow peppers , a huge bag of onions for a dollar, an exquisite ceramic hand-painted bowl for a gift, Korean pears, large as a coconut and I am on the prowl again.
Giving in
Next stop Vallarta. No charming architecture here. Instead, the very friendly Mexican market is thronged by Hispanics. Sometimes I am the only Indian there. Here, everyone is pressing forward to claim a Mexican empenada, crusty breads, stews, fresh tortillas, moles, Amarillo, and rojo. The loud wild mariachi music makes me want to dance in abandon among the tomatoes and leeks but I settle for the soft bread fresh from the oven, a splendidly rainbow-coloured Mexican cake festooned with wild strawberries and blackberries covered with lashings of cream, ponder over a tortilla iron pan for tortillas, perfect for dosas I think, spot an excellent bargain for sugarcane, 10-foot fronds for a dollar and buy a bottle of tequila. Loading my cart I actually cross the road, trundle over a battered walkway with deep pits and finally reach my car. Oddly, I do not miss the perfected smooth parking, well maintained concrete areas of supermarkets and the chirpy teenager who bags the groceries and offers to help you to your car.
I steer myself to the Indian market, India Sweets and Spices, one of the oldest grocery stores in Southern California. Probably 30 years old. Here I am greeted warmly with a shout from the Sikh counter clerk who yells out in Hindi, Where is the family? I have a long agenda here. Papads, Kulfi, neem soap and toothpaste... Yes, I am into Indian herbals, readymade dosa and idli mix stocked in Styrofoam containers, made by a South Indian lady, five kinds of rotis and naans, Glucose biscuits, 10 for a dollar, turmeric, cumin, cardamom, a dal or two, tamarind, a gunny bag of rice, packets of Bisi bela bath and Gits vadais, agarbatti, and then sink into a chair in the restaurant section and order channa and the puffy tenderly soft bathura topped off with sweet, scalding tea while the counter staff urge me to eat the specials, lemon rice and bitter gourd. I pick up half a dozen of Indian newspapers and magazines, and head home.
Why do I go so often to these markets? More often than not, I see rather than buy. I have never melded into the American culture/ obsession for keeping refrigerators stocked with groaning shelves of food on hand. So I shop regularly over weekends, at markets which are a bare 10-minute drive from home. More importantly, whenever I shop, I am gifted with multi faceted memories of a mosaic of rituals, traditions, landscapes, symbols , colours and civilisations — a coda to my weekly grocery experience.
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