Vegetable Shopping

I went vegetable shopping with R. this afternoon. Men do most of the shopping in his society, and they know how to do it. And, they have a variety and quality to choose from that is denied to most Americans. There were racks upon racks of the most delicious-looking fruit and vegetables and other foreign-branded stuff (some a mystery in my experience). In this small, crowded shop, there were more opportunities to eat well that you'd ever find in the largest supermarket in the U.S. I counted six types of eggplant alone, but there were probably more. (Should you think me obsessed of eggplant; in fact, I had some of the smaller ones stuffed with herbs, rice and meat and served in a tomato sauce for dinner last night. They were excellent. You should be so lucky.)

I have realized that vegetables here possess something altogether missing from American shop produce: taste, texture and smell. They're also cheaper. Without natural flavor, Americans compensate by adding salt—which may go a long way to explaining the typically excessive salt intake by Americans. Here, if you want to set your soul on fire, they use herbs and spices. And believe me; they can ignite asbestos if they want to. R. makes a hot-oil with peppers that must be kept in a glass jar. It would eat the nickel out of stainless steel.

Many of the vegetables come from local gardens—Palestine is essentially an agrarian society for the moment, after all—or are imported from other Mediterranean countries such as Turkey. Since it travels less, doesn't come from one of the monster commercial farms, or was genetically engineered to retain color or texture, fruit and vegetables sold in Palestine, when clustered together in a confined space like this grocery we visited, can make you dizzy with their combined perfume.

By the time R. was finished ordering, we had four baskets full of melon, peppers, mangos, herbs, apples, grapes, apricots, plums, potatoes, greens, etc., etc., etc. Checking out was a process of negotiation and weighing; cash was then flashed, change made, and we and two shop helpers were out the door with laden arms. No credit or debit cards—Arabs live a cash economy in Palestine.

The point of all this is that shopping has not changed one whit from my last time here, nor probably has it changed in centuries. The shopping centers and supermarkets are Israeli. On the Arab side there is no antiseptic, artificial environment, no canned music, no smiling clerks in aprons, shopping carts and handle wipes, no self-help checkout or bar code readers. There is no distance between you and the food; you can touch, squeeze, taste, punch and thump it as you will. As is the case with almost every Arab societal activity, the process of shopping for vegetables results in an intensely personal, individual transaction subject to haggling, compromise, promises, resigned acceptance and a deal well done.