Confessions of a Clueless Consumer
December 15, 2005 at 9:45 Until I moved to Belgium , I took for granted the wealth of knowledge I had accumulated on the retail landscape in the U.S. I was a shopping guru and didn’t even know it. Years of experience and a nose for a bargain had made me a master of the retail universe.
I knew which grocery stores had the freshest produce, the best bakery, the slowest checkout lines, the lowest prices, the best service, the largest imported food section, and the best and worst delicatessens.
Inside the stores, I could locate the jars of pimento peppers, the canned black beans, toothpicks, cupcake liners, Splenda, and anything else I might need. I knew the difference between the types and qualities of the flour in the baking section, the subtle variations in the numerous kinds of canned tomatoes, when it was safe to go with a store brand versus a name brand, and when to avoid the crowds. I even knew what day the shelves were stocked and when the weekly sales were launched.
My knowledge of other retailers was also extensive. Sure Wal-Mart had better prices overall, but Target often had better designs on everything from clothing to housewares. Yet Wal-Mart had better quality kids’ shoes, but Target had better women’s shoes—see what I mean about having market intelligence?
Who knew Costco’s cakes were as delicious as they were inexpensive? A pleasant surprise since most discount bakery cakes taste like they contain petroleum byproducts.
In the mall I could tell you the best place to buy men’s shirts, and who had the best selection of ties and the lowest prices on khakis. I knew the starting price for a pair of Levis , the most common sale price, and the truly good deal. I could tell you where to buy a fabulous leather handbag or a special occasion dress for your daughter.
I could predict when items would be marked down and how far. I knew all sales were not created equal and could spot a bogus 50-percent-off sale a mile away.
I knew where to buy appliances and furniture and who delivered and how fast. I could tell you which brands were rated highest by Consumers Reports and who had the best selection of everything from washing machines to children’s bedroom furniture to leather sofas.
I had Lowe’s and Home Depot’s respective strengths and weaknesses tallied on a spreadsheet in my head. I could tell you where to buy paint and which brands were best for different applications. I knew that you should not buy hardwood flooring at a giant DIY store but get it directly from the mill. Never heard of that tiny family owned mill? No problem. I’ve got their number.
Despite living in an area with a remarkable number and density of stores, I was not overwhelmed by my choices. I was lord of the shopping universe, moving with confidence and grace through my kingdoms.
And then I moved to Belgium , where I became a hapless and clueless consumer. Nowhere was this more evident than in the grocery store, which looked so straight-forward but was full of hidden puzzles designed to confuse and humiliate.
Sure, the produce section was self-explanatory, though we committed a big faux pas in not weighing our purchases before going to the checkout at Carrefour. The checker and the other patrons were remarkably patient as my husband dashed back to the scales on a busy Friday night.
We quickly figured out how to use the bread slicing machines, though we occasionally came home with the wrong type of bread. (Oh no, this isn’t raisin bread? What are those brown things in the bread? Nuts? Why does it taste bitter? I thought this was a sweet bread!)
The meat section was challenging because we couldn’t distinguish the different cuts of beef and pork. A Southern girl, I wanted to make BBQ sandwiches but didn’t want to humiliate myself trying to explain to the butcher I needed a “pork butt roast.”
It was the dairy case, however, that was our complete undoing. Was the selection really as enormous as it seemed or did I just not pay attention in the U.S. ? I’m not sure, but my impression is that Belgians enjoy as many varieties of yogurt as Americans have types of soft drinks.
I was baffled by the rows and rows of dairy products. How were they different? Were any of them low-fat? Which bottle of milk was skim? And what about all these blocks of cheese—what was what?
I’ve come home with yogurt when I thought I was buying sour cream. I once unwrapped what I thought was a block of cheddar cheese and was quickly overcome by its vile smell. (Not feeling adventurous, I tossed it straight into the trash and took the bag outside so it wouldn’t pollute my kitchen.)
One morning I opened and poured what I thought was milk into my coffee and it curdled. Oops, that was buttermilk in disguise. Ewwww.
With the dairy section at the grocery store leaving such a sour taste in my mouth, it was clear I had to be better prepared. I knew I needed a Dutch-English dictionary but where to find one? Once again, I was lost. It took me weeks of wandering into bookstores before I triumphed.
However, my elation was short-lived. One problem solved, another revealed. It’s not enough to own a Dutch dictionary, I must bring it with me to the store. Somehow I always forget it and keep repeating my shopping mistakes.
Hmmm, if only I could replace my foggy brain with an upgraded model that has improved memory. Anyone know where to purchase that?
© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.
December 15, 2005
Reader Comments (2)
My parents tell the story of their first US supermarket encounter in 1970. They spoke basic English but could not read food can labels. We ended up with a lot of weird items in our cupboards. They looked suspiciously at the gallon milk containers... "Is that milk?" "So much?"
I look back on these culture/language mishaps with a laugh.
[Response from V-Grrrl: One of the first things E's Belgian cousins commented on was the size of our milk packaging: "Look! Look! A big milk--just like in the movies!" It was a half gallon container.]