gelson's is sadistic
where the fuck is the chèvre or: the instacart diaries
The chèvre is not with the creme fraiche. The chèvre is not with the feta. The chèvre is not with the Boursin—I mean, come on.
The chèvre is not in the cream cheese endcap. It is not in either dairy section—not in the one with the sour cream nor the one with the prosciutto (which is the one labeled “deli,” even though there is also a literal deli with literal meat-slicing machines and an actual counter where a woman in a paper cap will tell you that, no, the chèvre is not there either).
No. Non. The chèvre is on the other side of the store near the wine, with the European cheeses. Duly noted.
The poke bowls are not with the sushi. Even though there is a package of salmon poke in the sushi case—salmon poke does not a bowl make. You fucking simpleton.
“Hi,” I say apologetically to the woman in the paper cap behind the sushi case. “Is this where I find the spicy Hawaiian poke bowls?”
“No,” she says. “It’s with the meat section. The sushi bar is over there.”
And yet we are, at that moment, speaking to each other over a sushi bar, although it is apparently not enough of a sushi bar to be called such in relation to the other one, where the poke bowls are. Sushi bar prime, if you will.
This is Gelson’s. It is sadistic, and I love it.
I can’t quite figure out why. It is not the only grocery store on my beat where things are difficult to find. I have learned the layout of a few Sprouts stores dead cold because that’s where I typically base myself and it is full of classification oddities. Ralph’s is simply a nightmare, full of Kroger products whose labels and bar code numbers change so frequently you would think they were on the lam, shedding license plates and passports. Von’s will let customers order a rotisserie chicken from a deli where the oven has been broken for many months, and will not be repaired for many months more. King’s Hawaiian Rolls—which have a psychological death grip on the people of LA County, and which show up in about half of the orders I shop—are never quite in the bakery or with the sadder, more plasticky Shelf Breads, but in a Secret Third Place. Are beans a vegetable? Nobody can agree. Taxonomy is the essential nature of Instacart. If you are to be good at it, you must have a mind for secondary classification, thought error, and fantasy.
I should hate Gelson’s. It is pretentious. Every time I accept an order from there, I am sweaty and wild-eyed by the time I complete it, typically having flagged down three+ employees to find things like raisins, which are also not in any of the places where they should be. And yet, my gut feeling when I see a Gelson’s order pop up on my screen is: Game on, bitch. I want that trophy.
I wonder why this could be. The customers are not on the whole less annoying than any other group of customers, although the delivery addresses tend to be in La Cañada, Pasadena, Arcadia, or Altadena rather than hated Glendale (or, god forbid, Burbank). That’s because there are no Gelson’s west of the one I shop, not for a penny and not for a pound.
I think it must be fantasy—the fantasy that by proximity to Gelson’s, one will know something and become someone. It’s not some corporate Kroger affiliate, and it isn’t a societal promenade. It’s nice there. Kind of like Central Market or Wegmans. The employees are kind to IC rats like me. It’s a reverse Narnia: always Christmas, never winter. Maybe if I knew where to find the fucking chèvre in Gelson’s, I would know where to find the people who bask and wear soft leather shoes. Because the thing is, those people are in Gelson’s. They move through the aisles like somnambulists. (Which, I’ll admit, is kind of annoying if you’re doing a triple order and you can’t find the fucking hazelnut Malk.)
Or maybe it’s because the only time I ever saw a celebrity in LA, it was at the Gelson’s in Franklin Village (across the street!!! from Schwartz & Sandy’s, my fellow pumpheads might like to know). It was Jay Duplass, looking, as always, like a precocious child searching for his lost jammies. (JD, I say this with admiration, if that wasn’t clear.) Gelson’s, I thought. Of course. Deli to the stars. Does an indwelling spark of glamor burn here or what? And if I find it …
Sorry for the lapse in missives, pally. As I wrote here, it’s been a season of thawing out after a long freeze, emotionally speaking. The stuff comes in waves. Thaw out, be everywhere, freeze up and get back in the hole. God, I find it annoying. Like any process which touches on grief, it goes slower through the heart than the head. But here I am, thawing out again. <3