Shall We Eataly?

When I was a kid, every mother in our village pulled their Covair station wagon down the dirt road to the farm at the outside of town for fresh eggs.

Need pork chops?

We went to the butcher near the television repair store. 

Milk? 

Call Bud, the milkman, who delivered the dairy including butter, ice cream, and the occasional family dog that had wandered off. 

If you wanted great cheese, you went to the Greek neighborhood in Mayfield Heights- near the cemetery, and the goats.

When you needed veggies and fruit- the great Cleveland Farmer’s Market on the west side.

If you wanted pastry- one of the weekly bake sales at any Hungarian church in Garfield Heights- or an Amish buggy two miles east, had the best gooey stuff. 

Diapers?

Cloth- and delivered.

Medicine?

Supplied by the doctor, at the doctors, or Al at Species Drug Store- just tell him how you’re feeling.

Candy, milkshakes, and shoplifting?

Woolworth’s.

And when you needed the real things that lives are made of, like dish liquid, canned soup, hotdogs, and boxed Kraft macaroni and cheese, you swung by Lawson’s.

Oh, the days of Lawson’s!

Approximately 30×50 feet of six sparkly clean aisles, the latest edition of True Detective, and handsome young men in blue and white uniforms.

Speaking of hard meats- (I’m talkin’ salami people- get your heads out of the gutter), if you wanted them you went to Cleveland’s Little Italy neighborhood. 

But, last week I was in NYC, and the son was hungry, and he wanted me to cook, and I wanted to drink more wine, but he insisted, and I caved in- to 50,000 square feet of grocery glory carved out of the Italian countryside- kind of cave.


“Chase… Time to 
Eataly!”



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