Tuesday, November 24th, 2020

The shop window at the international store in the Heart of the City is only as wide as the folding table in front of it. A doorway takes up the rest of the storefront. A wire rack at the far side of the doorway juts over to the front of the shop to its right. No one seems to mind. I need two more ingredients for my stew. I haven’t seen them elsewhere. I duck around the table and go in. The shop is much deeper than it is wide. Wooden shelves line the walls. A lower table running down the center holds bins of seeds, spices, and other things that I can’t identify. I have just enough room to squeeze down the aisles. The store is enormously popular with foreign workers and gourmets. The shelves are roughly organized by region. One set has a daunting array of types of coconut milk. Another has boxes and packets of soup mixes, labeled in various languages that I can’t read. A small freezer case sits in a corner in the back. I go completely around the inside of the shop without seeing what I want. When I get to the front, the owner asks if he can help me. I’m looking for Worcestershire sauce. He points to the end of the wall to the right and says something that I don’t catch. A small woman turns around. I had thought she was a customer. “I show you.” She goes right to it. It’s exactly what I want. “I can help you find anything else?” I ask for beef broth. She doesn’t understand. I see cubes of chicken bouillon. I pick one up. Like these, but for beef? “No, no beef. Just chicken. Sorry.” That’s not as crucial. I bring the Worcestershire sauce up to the register. She starts to ring me up, then stops. The owner comes back and completes the sale. I head out to do more shopping at the supermarket at the end of the mall. I can get my mundane groceries there.