There’s a wonderful world where all you desire

And everything you’ve longed for is at your fingertips

Where the bittersweet taste of life is at your lips

Where aisles and aisles of dreams await you

–Queen of the Supermarket, Bruce Springsteen, 2009

Last year crime writer Duane Swierczynski, author of the forthcoming California Bear, mentioned the 1973 horror film Messiah of Evil when the topic of favorite scenes filmed in supermarkets came up on Twitter. Having never seen the movie, I peeped it on Prime and was blown away by the low-budget scare fest that made me jump a few times. The supermarket setting, which Swierczynski says was shot in Burbank, didn’t disappoint. Afterwards I fell down a rabbit hole of watching clips of supermarket scenes that included footballer turned ‘70s sex symbol Joe Namath making a sandwich while shopping in C.C. and Company (1970), sloppy Phillip Marlowe searching for Courry Brand Cat Food in The Long Goodbye (1973), the crazed killer scene in Cobra (1986), Will Graham in Manhunter (1986) explaining to his son how Hannibal Lector drove him nuts and the brilliantly goofy White Noise (2022). 

In that scene people modern danced while shopping as they awaited the end of the world. Using an electro glam track called “new body rhumba” that James Murphy made to sound like a synthed-out ‘80s (originally I thought it was the Talking Heads or The B-52s) MTV song as the entire store boogied down the aisle of the A&P. Author Mel Healy wrote in his blog “crime fiction (& the kitchen),” “Supermarket spaces in themselves are clearly filmic, what with all those straight lines and geometric perspectives, wall after wall of shelves packed with brightly coloured packages and products, the chiller and freezer units, the fluorescent lighting, everything building up into a mazey grid of aisles and counters.”

 Having watched the White Noise scene recently, seeing the A&P logo, a brand that has been out of business since 2015, reminded me of the days of my youth when I often went to that store in the Harlem neighborhood where mom, grandma and baby brother Perky (his real name was Carlos) lived on 151st Street near Riverside Drive. Though we patronized many of the stores, restaurants and movie theaters, but it was the A&P supermarket on Broadway where we went the most.

Grandma, a pretty dark skinned woman in her late 40s named Mary Peterson, worked long hours at a factory in New Jersey, cooked our meals daily and did most of the shopping. She was a strong, but nervous woman who scared easily and would jump if a ladybug landed on her hand. She wore modest dresses or skirts, but never pants. She didn’t have any hobbies, rarely attended social events or church, but got great pleasure from going to the A&P a few times a week. 

Walking through the doors there was always sawdust on the floor and the smell of the A&P’s freshly ground coffee floated through the air. There were a few wobbly wheeled carts in front, but I always tried to pick a good one. Though the store was clean and neat, the aisles were narrow and the lighting was dim. Even when I was smaller I never wanted to ride in the metal cart, preferring to walk next to grandma. 

In the first aisle was the bread section, where the Wonderbread brand was my favorite. Having strived and survived as a southern child raised during the Depression/Jim Crow years had an effect on grandma when it came to food. She loved buying groceries and feeding people. Decades after my mom was a young woman, her friends still shared memories of grandma’s mac & cheese, friend chicken, lima beans and other savory delights she fixed on the white gas stove. 

Over the holidays, especially Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter, her cooking and shopping gene became even more amped. As a child growing-up in the ‘70s I was weaned on Saturday morning cartoons, which were created to force feed kids jingle and slogan heavy commercials for sugary cereals, chocolate bars and salty chips. At the store with grandma I often requested those products which she was happy to buy. Sometimes I wanted Captain Crunch or Super Sugar Crisp or whoever had the best prizes buried in their boxes. 

Later, at the checkout we kept our items in the cart until we were in front of the cashier, who packed everything in brown paper bags. When we were leaving, I often begged grandma for pennies to put into the red gumball machines. 

Grandma’s good friend was our neighbor Miss Mary Lou. Often on the weekend they took the #4 bus uptown to the A&P on a 178th Street and Broadway. It was next door to the George Washington Bridge Bus Station, the terminal she used every day to get to her job in New Jersey. In those days Washington Heights was still primarily a Jewish community, and grandma, in addition to her usual haul, bought pickled herring, lox and white fish. While those were the most basic of Jewish cuisine, they added a touch of diversity to our soul food household.    

One cool fall morning in 1970 when I was in 2nd grade at the nearby Black prep academy the Modern School, mom and I exited our building and instantly smelled smoke. Fire truck sirens screamed down the hill. Reaching the corner we saw the next block engulfed in flames. Carl’s Corner, a bar that was one of mom’s youthful hangout spots, was part of a blazing inferno that also destroyed the Chinese laundry, a toy store and the butcher shop. The four establishments were connected and within hours they were gone. 

The neighborhood smelled of ash and smoke for a week. A few months later the property the shops were on was replaced with a massive white brick building that, when unveiled, was a Sloan’s Supermarket. There were giant signs in the windows advertising the forthcoming launch the following week and the various items on sale. 

The opening day at Sloan’s was like a carnival complete with streamers, music and bright lights. Grandma and I walked through the automatic doors as though entering a church, a holy house that was bigger, brighter and bolder than the A&P would ever be. Grandma got one of the shiny metal carts that pushed smoothly. On the right was a towering stack of Entenmann’s and shelves of deserts while on the left were fresh veggies and fruits. Overhead smooth Muzak played without interruption.

“If you want anything go get it and put it in the cart,” she said. I wandered off, returning minutes later with Count Chocula cereal, frozen waffles, shrimp cocktails, a big steak and a few TV dinners. Though grandma was an excellent cook in my kid mind I thought Swanson frozen dinners were fancy. 

Grandma smiled brightly as we stood in the check-out line. Unlike A&P there was an electronic conveyer belt that brought the items up to the cashier. Definitely, everything about Sloan’s was better than the A&P even the four gumball machines near the windows had more variety: one held sweet tarts, another had novelty prizes and the other two multicolored jumbo bubblegum balls. 

We got to some of the more far away locations, like the Pathmark in the Bronx, when grandma’s boyfriend Joe drove us. A tall, thin brown skinned man, he was a southern gentleman, but one of few words. He kept a short haircut, wore eyeglasses and was always sharply dressed. While grandma and Joe weren’t married, he had been in my life since birth and I considered him my surrogate grandfather.  

In fall 1971, when I was eight, the animated Shop Rite ads began appearing on television. I was obsessed with their Can Can commercials with the Moulin Rouge dancing girls and an excited artist painting cans of food on a canvas. Around the beginning of November I began thinking about Thanksgiving dinner. In our house it was always a big deal, and that year I mentioned to grandma that I wanted us to have “the biggest turkey ever.” The “big turkey” became a mission. 

Two weeks before the holiday Grandma excitedly told me, “On Saturday Joe is coming to take us to take us to the Shop Rite in Jersey to get your big turkey.” You might as well have told me we were going to Disneyland or Toys-R-Us, I was quite excited.

Come Saturday evening Joe was parked outside our building, sitting in his ’69 Ford smoking a cigarette. Miss Mary Lou was going with us, and we sat together in the back seat as grandma got in the passenger side. Joe drove down the hill to Riverside Drive and cruised towards the George Washington Bridge. Suddenly it started raining, but a little water wasn’t going to deter us. 

The market was in Paramus, which was about 45-minutes away. 

A truck driver by day, Joe drove carefully. With the radio tuned to 1010 WINS (“All news, all the time”), it droned on as the women chatted. The lights were bright on the bridge as other cars zoomed by. I never got bored listening to grown folks talk, which they did until we saw the huge Shop Rite sign illuminated by a rainbow of lights. After finding a parking space Joe opted to stay in the car, but told grandma, “Take your time Mary. No need to rush.” 

It was still drizzling, and the red, blue and white glow reflected in the puddles as we trooped our way across the crowded parking lot. From the second we walked in I was overwhelmed by the size of the store. It was gigantic, but grandma and Miss Mary Lou navigated the wide aisles with ease. The store was seasonally decorated with pictures of Pilgrims, pumpkins and turkeys. When we got to the meat section we stopped. Plump Butterball turkeys overflowed, stacked to the brim of the freezer. 

“Get the biggest one you want,” grandma said. 

For that moment I was King Turkey. Picking out the bird wasn’t an exact science, but I studied them closely, measuring each curve and plumpness as though I was a young poultry expert. It took me 15-minutes to finally pick the fattest frozen bird in the pen. On the ride home, grandma was excited as she told Joe what he had missed by staying in the car. 

Grandma started preparing days before, but on Thanksgiving morning she woke up at dawn to put the bird in the oven. I regret sleeping through her seasoning and stuffing the turkey, but while I watched the Macy’s Parade, Tintin cartoons and A Man Called Flintstone on television, it was cooking. Hours later, as guests crowded around the table set up in the living room, the turkey was propped in the middle of the setting waiting to be admired. 

“That turkey looks delicious,” they’d say. And with each compliment grandma replied, “Oh thank you, but you know Michael picked it out.” Joe sat in his usual place on the end of the couch, smoking a cigarette, nursing a glass of brandy with milk and silently waiting for grandma to make his plate. After the blessing was said, we dived into the mountains of food on our plates and only came up for air when we were done. Grandma didn’t eat much, but got full from joy her cooking brought to others. 

A year later, a few weeks after school began and I started 4th grade, Joe had a heart attack in his sleep and died. He was at his own apartment, where he lived with his cousin Mozelle. She and grandma were friends, and it was Mozelle who delivered the bad news. The call came in about 6:00 A.M., but as soon as the ringing phone woke me a small voice in my head whispered, “Joe died.” Moments later I heard grandma weeping as mom tried to comfort her. 

It was still dark outside, so I lay back down. I thought about the day I believed my lifeless goldfish had died. However, before I emptied the bowl and flushed the fish down the toilet Joe said, “Let me see something. Put the bowl down.” He picked-up the crystal salt shaker from the table and sprinkled a little in the water. Suddenly the fins were moving and the fish began swimming again. In that moment, Joe became magical to me. 

After Joe’s death grandma was sadder than I’d ever seen her, but she still went to work every day and to the supermarket. When I got older, I sometimes met her at the bus terminal and we’d go to the A&P in Washington Heights. From the minute I saw it, I too was impressed with the size, stock and cleanliness as well as the friendly men behind the deli counter who let us sample the cold cuts while slicing them thinly.

Much like church, when I was a teenager I stopped going to the supermarket. I might stop by the bodega to pick-up milk, beer or cigarettes, but entering a full-fledged market didn’t happen again until years later. Ironically, in 1979 at the beginning of my teenage rebellion period, the Clash released their London Calling album which featured the track “Lost in the Supermarket.” 

A punk song at its most neo-Motown, the track was about citadels of consumerism and losing your true self in products, but it also put me in mind of those boyhood days when shopping with grandma was the thrill of the week. I had no way of putting my thoughts into words back then, but I realize now that the supermarkets were grandma’s therapy, the one place away from work and home where she could relax. Years before people used terms like “safe space,” any big supermarket was hers. 

Grandma moved to Baltimore with my mom in 1992 and the following winter she got stomach cancer. By the time I was told she’d been ill for awhile. When I arrived in Baltimore, grandma was at Good Samaritan Hospital hooked-up to tubes that included a morphine drip. I was shocked by how much weight she had lost. It was a cruel joke–this woman who had loved shopping, cooking and feeding people was now so thin. 

Frail and flying high, she muttered something when I walked through the door. 

“What’s that grandma?”

“I saw you earlier. You and Joe were coming down the hall.”

“Joe’s been gone a long time grandma.”

“I saw you,” she repeated sternly as possible. “I know what I saw.” 

Though she came home the following week, for the next six months she was in and out of the hospital. The last time I saw her alive she made me a big pot of chitlins, one of them old school soul food dishes many people don’t make anymore. 

A week later, she was gone. While I was quite sad, I never cried, but instead played back the many memories of our times in various stores. If she’s lucky, I thought, maybe heaven will be a big, brightly lit supermarket.