Supermarket Tale
Doubts are currently being cast upon the prehistoric division of labour which gave men the role of hunters and women that of gatherers: a new study suggests the opposite may have been the case instead. That makes no practical difference to me on this early Sunday afternoon, surrounded by hordes of people who are bravely venturing inside the various aisles of the Blanchardstown supermarket. No gatherers or hunters here, only attentive label-interpreters, budgeting experts, or in some cases, reckless spenders: in one word, consumers.
The price tags on the shelves constitute a painful reminder of my place in capitalist society, as I find myself having to pass on delicious-looking products that have the potential of sending me into bankruptcy in favour of their less appealing, cheaper equivalents.
If I lived in prehistoric times, my brain would help me survive by storing information about where to find edible berries, or how to chase down and kill small animals that would then become my dinner. After millennia of evolution, my brain, which has the same structure as that of my ancestors, constitutes a source of information about which brands of jam are cheaper, and which of the cheap brands guarantee decent nutritional values rather than just being composed of a deceiving orange mix of sugar and chemicals with an apricot drawn on the label. I have also memorised which plant-based milk is discounted this month, as well as where to find the most decent coffee imitation of the brand that I’d actually like to drink.
I therefore venture inside the supermarket assuming that I will have access to all this information, my shopping list having been carefully organised to match the layout of the supermarket, which is engraved in my brain after endless Sundays spent roaming those aisles. The list starts with fruits and veggies, then moves on to cheese, fish, cold cuts, tinned tuna, plant-based milk, etcetera. Centuries of evolution have made me capable of closing my eyes and picturing exactly where the gluten free section is, and where every single product I’m interested in is stored within that section. I can even see each of their price tags, and approximate the total amount of money I’m going to spend with impressive accuracy before even stepping in the building. Thank you, hunter-gatherer ancestors.
However, this Sunday something appears to be tragically different. My amygdala fires up the same danger signal that my prehistoric relatives would get when being chased by a predator, and I feel my chest tightening. The shelves of the supermarket are covered by a long, white drape. On the drape, a sign announces that they are in the process of changing the layout of the supermarket to offer us “a more optimal shopping experience”, and that they are “sorry for any inconvenience caused”.
The inconvenience caused is indeed quite significant: all the habitual shoppers are lost and confused, and although none of them are talking to each other, I can tell we’re all silently facing the same challenges: where did they move the smoked salmon? And what about the tinned tuna? And the cereals? Where is the baking section?
The shop assistants are caught up in this storm of questions: I see a few of them hiding in the less popular aisles, and as I briefly catch their avoidant gaze I tell myself that, no matter how much money they make, they should be making more.
I walk around the new, counterintuitive supermarket layout, and it takes me actual ages to find everything I need. I tell myself that it was way better before, and then I worry that I’m getting less open to changes as I age. I tell myself that I could have arranged all of this better myself, and then I worry I’m becoming arrogant. I tell myself that supermarkets back home had way better products, prices, and layout, and then I worry that I’m naïvely idealising the past.
My quarter-life crisis is in full swing by the time I realise that smoked salmon is nowhere to be found, and I’m going to have to either give up my plan of cooking salmon and asparagus pasta for dinner, or speak to an Actual Human Being to facilitate my search. I queue in front of the fishmongers for a good ten minutes before I realise that I’ve been standing in the wrong spot, and that the actual queuing spot has been moved as part of the New Layout Project.
I’m close to giving up when the fishmonger spots me and, out of pity, sends his assistant my way to help me. This fishmonger assistant is completely covered in white scrubs and smells of fish, like the improbable mix between a marine biologist and a surgeon. Despite this, he has a warm, friendly smile.
“Smoked salmon, eh? Follow me.”
I follow him all the way to the fruit aisle, which turns out to also be where some of the fish is kept. This new layout is just terrible… Oh no. Why is he pointing at this big empty spot in the refrigerated section? Surely it’s not…
“The most popular product in the supermarket!” He jokes, his face stretched in a big smile. “Sorry about that.”
“Wait, does that mean…?”
“Yeah, no salmon. Sorry pal. We’re all out. Might get some again tomorrow.” My heart sinks to my stomach.
“Is there anywhere else I could find salmon? Maybe a different shop nearby, or…?”
“Yes, there is,” he says gravely. “You can get it from the sea!” He exclaims with a smile and a wink. “Can you fish?”
I shake my head, defeated.
“Well, there’s nothing I can do for you then.”
Sorry, hunter-gatherer ancestors.