When I arrived in the Canary Islands I was aware that I would probably get by with my smattering of Spanish for a good while. I had been ready for this adventure all of my life, I didn’t long for friends or green fields or a cup of PG Tips, I was thoroughly happy. There are times when I think of it as the happiest time of my life. It most certainly was one of them.
There was just one day when I felt completely overwhelmed, which must be the way many people feel. It was hot, I remember, maybe the kids had been a playing up a bit, I had almost certainly had some sort of problem with the now ex, and standing in the middle of a local supermarket, which was most definitely not Marks and Spencer’s food section, I despaired of finding anything cookable, and I felt the tears welling up. The memory is still quite sharp, because it isn’t like me. I’m a reasonably positive person, and tears are not my default reaction to any sort of problem.
That I came out of that supermarket with a smile on my face tells you how great the staff were. In those days food choices were limited (they still are to some extent, but that’s another story), and I knew I shouldn’t expect to find familiar things, but what made me super-loyal, over the next 20 years, to this shop was the friendly and positive attitude of the owners and workers.
It was called Más a Menos, located at the far end of Los Cristianos, and owned by an Italian family, who had already lived here for some years then. It wasn’t my nearest, and it wasn’t the cheapest but it became my supermarket of choice, despite moans and groans from the ex. Of course, time came when I shopped less because my family shrank as the kids grew up and left home.
A few weeks back I was aware that changes must be afoot because masses of things were missing from the shelves, but the checkout girl said they were getting ready to renovate, and, I have to admit, sadly, it was in need of a lick of paint. The next time I went it was closed for said work. Last Sunday, in need of real Parmesano, fresh herbs and a bottle of decent red wine, I chugged down there.
The way I felt on entering was akin to the way I had felt those 20 years ago. I felt as if I was in an alien space. Gone was the fruit counter laden with the freshest fruit and vegetables to be found in supermarket, gone was the deli with the pecorino, parmesano and jars of funghi, and gone was the smell of coffee from the far corner, where a small bakery had offered quick caffeine fixes to ease the shopping ordeal.
My first reaction was dismay. I looked around for a familiar face to tell they had made a mistake – that the packs of plastic cheese in the smart, new display units, the wilting, prepacked lettuce, and the limited choice of wine was not the way forward. My second reaction was betrayal, as I realized that the truth was that they had sold out to a chain of small supermarkets which seems to specialize in high prices and inferior goods for the trapped-tourist market. I grabbed a baguette and a newspaper and fled to the privacy of my car, before the tears welled over, just as I had felt all that time ago.
As I sank into my car seat I found myself slightly breathless, as memories flooded back. Pedro, who left years ago to fulfill his dream of working on boats, and who used to sneak round the corner of the isle, pinch Guy’s baseball cap and scuttle off, Guy chasing after him in mock anger.
Marco and Maximo the devastatingly handsome pair of brothers, nephews of the owner, who used to manage the shop, and draw in the lady customers! Both of them always had a smile and greeting which felt genuine. I remember long conversations with Marco on all manner of topics. He liked to practise his English, which he speaks really well. We used to talk about the US a lot. He was a huge 49ners fan, and most years would go over for the Superbowl – until the Iraq War changed things, as it did for many Americanophiles. His dream used to be to become a sports reporter, but I think he lacked the confidence. His brother followed his own dream and left a few years back.
The friendliness of the staff – I remember coming back from vacation once and not being able to get around the store for people stopping me to say, “Hi, We missed you. Where have you been.” It felt like I was home at last.
The feeling that, as a customer, you were important. I remember describing cottage cheese once, something even now, you rarely find on the island. A few weeks later, there it was on the shelf. Marco once said, “Just ask and if there is something you want, we’ll do our best to get it for you,” and they did. As the big, shiney supermarkets sprang up over the years, he said, “We know we can’t be the cheapest, but we will make up for it by giving the best service.” And the guys who stocked the shelves would hurry over to carry your bags out to the car, and be reluctant to accept any tip you offered.
At Christmas there would always be a thank you gift, bottles of wine or sherry or panettone and champagne. When my ordered magazine failed to arrive one month, on my next visit I was pounced on as soon as I entered, “Señora, señora we have it now, we have it.” When Guy left to go to university there were always questions, “How is he doing? How does he like the US? Is he playing football there?” In 2006 when Austin was on the tv on an almost weekly basis, “You must be so proud of him. How well he speaks. What good work he is doing.” The staff did change over the years, but they always stayed a long time, enough to get to know you. Many of them remembered my kids being little, blond cheeky monsters. They shared my pride in how they turned out.
Ack, well, it’s gone now. It took me by surprise because I had moved on too. My almost daily visits had become monthly, because, in the end I couldn’t afford the prices of their dog good or their detergent, and I only went for the things I couldn’t get elsewhere, the Ben and Jerrys, the choice of wines and spirits, the fresh bread, the Italian cheeses and deli stuffs, the fresh greengrocery. Truth is that I can get these things in other places now. I have to shop around, different towns even, but it’s here. What I can’t get is the warmth and friendliness. Life is less rich for the passing of Más a Menos.
