The FishWoman

Relax, this post isn't about sad singletons with scales under their clothing (viz BJ I). Though perhaps that's a subject for future exposition.

This post is about the fishwoman at Giant Foods supermarket.

I have "expressed my irritation" in the past at the American expat Junior League women in London who get all teary eyed and hysterical when they visit the vendor at the JLL Xmas Fair that sells tins of pumpkin filling and packets of Jello. You would think they had been living in a mud hut in Chad for at least three years, not a multi million dollar rented townhouse in the poshest part of one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world.

I had to eat humble pie, however, within about six hours of my first day in Middle of Nowhere in April 2002. The first meal I ever ate in this town was cheese and garlic grits, which at 8 o'clock the morning after a transatlantic flight was perhaps not what the doctor ordered, but it was the only thing on offer and I was desperate. The second was a Big Jim's BBQ. The third was a Big Jim's BBQ.

For my international friends who haven't experienced the pleasure of a Southern BBQ yet, Big Jim's probably sounds quite promising to you. You're thinking king size steroid-pumped American steaks hanging off the edge of the plate, right? Yeah, that's what I thought too. In fact, Southern BBQ consists of shredded pork shoulder (usually cold or lukewarm) pre-mixed with a sticky sweet red brown sauce, baked beans in a brown sauce, and coleslaw. You spoon a bit of each into a bun, and try to eat it. It's kind of fun watching international students at their first Big Jim's BBQ catered event because they run round looking for the sizzling grill with the hamburgers and chicken and steaks on it, and suddenly realize that the sticky pork stuff in the big pot is all the chow they're going to get.

So, after that third meal, you can imagine how deliriously happy I was when KiltGuy (who'd been prowling around exploring while I was sitting in some meeting or other) dragged me off to the grocery store he'd discovered which sold Cadbury's chocolate, French cheese and live lobsters in tanks. Not that I've ever bought a live lobster from a tank, but I was immensely reassured that a store existed where one could if one wanted. Anyway, it's called Food of All Nations and while it's admittedly not always the cheapest supermarket in town, it's pretty comprehensive. It has a very good range of McVities biscuits, including their ginger snaps and hobnobs. If it stocked Walkers' roast chicken and thyme flavour potato crisps it would be just perfect. (See how I sound like a one of those expat Junior Leaguers?)

That was nearly three years ago, however, and in the intervening period I have ventured beyond the direness of Big Jim's to eat a lot of the local cuisine, and mostly enjoyably. Fried chicken and mashed sweet potatoes are very good and I'm also very keen on southern "biscuits" (aka scones).

But I still, totally, absolutely, hate the supermarkets. Food Lion, Kroger, Giant, Harris Teeter - they're all basically the same. The food is processed, coloured and pumped full of water beyond an inch of its life. (Harris Teeter yesterday, for example, had only one kind of British cheese in stock and that was Dairy Crest Five-In-One.) The fruit is covered with wax, the cakes are all butter icing sponge with lurid decoration (dark blue and orange icing is v popular in this town), and genetically modifed material and antibiotics are so common the labels don't even bother to remark on it. They even do Lunchables for adults now! What is so sad is that even some normal, sensible Americans have had their expectations lowered so far by this bunch of crap that they don't even know what real food should taste like. I can feel American hackles rising so here's an example. At the English tea table at the Food Festival in October, we were asked countless times: "Is this real cream?" "Is this really real cream?" and best of all "Did you whip it yourself?" You see, American supermarkets sell this stuff called Cool Whip which is made of water, corn syrup and vegetable oil, and has absolutely no cream in it at all. Anything white and fluffy in the rough proximity of a pie or bowl of strawberries is most often assumed to be Cool Whip.

Anyway, I digress. I'm finally going to get to the point of this post, which is the fishwoman.

The Fishwoman lives at Giant, the nearest supermarket to Landlady Lynn's house. I would normally avoid the fishcounter at Giant, for all the reasons above and then some, but in this case, Landlady Lynn was already making herself salmon parcelled up in tin foil. I like fish parcelled up particularly if I am not the person doing the fiddly parcelling, so I was quite keen on buying into that plan, but I was going to have to go and get myself a bit of fish pronto.

Here is, verbatim, my conversation with the Fishwoman:

Fishwoman: [raises finely plucked eyebrow]

Me : "Hello I'd like a bit of salmon fillet please"

Fishwoman: [heaves massive, very dead salmon fillet onto scale and starts ringing it up].

Me: "A bit of salmon fillet please" [I consider adding a question to ask when it was caught, but on reflection decide that I probably don't want to know, as it would be a fifteen mile round trip to get anything better]

Fishwoman: "How much?"

Me: "Hmm, how about eight ounces?"

Fishwoman: [drops fillet back on scales, puts hands on hips, raises both eyebrows]
"We don't do ounces. How much is that in pounds?"


In the matter of Ranson V US Supermarket Industry, the case for the prosecution rests, your honour....