My romantic rendezvous with a retail giant
By Deborah Salomon
Costco has been in the news a lot this year — mostly for successful retail strategy, not as a mind-body experience. And certainly not as an object described in French, the language of love.
But I love Costco, perhaps because it represents a prevailing spirit — which sounds more elegant as l’air du temps.
Not that I’m showing off. After two years of high school and three semesters of college French, then living in a predominantly French-speaking city for a quarter century, a few phrases stuck, or else I would have gotten lost, or starved.
I joined Costco in 1994; annual membership fee has risen only five dollars in 23 years. Back then, families made it a Saturday afternoon eating outing: an elongated premium beef hot dog and refillable drink cost just over a dollar (now $1.50) in the food court, always packed. Pizza slices . . . humongous. Raspberry frosties to die for on a hot day. But that wasn’t the main attraction. Costco had a happy ambience created, I’ll wager, by a corporate psychologist who trains employees to move quickly, talk loud, smile and exude good will.
Sullen slowpokes need not apply.
This results in a feeling of “relax, hon, all’s right with the world,” since within the walls of an edifice the size of an airplane hangar ordinary folks are able to fill huge carts with fabulous stuff in multi-packs. If they can afford it, so can you.
I find myself looking for things to buy. Simply being there makes me want to run out and invite the neighborhood to dinner.
I noticed something else: Men. Most fellas aren’t into shopping for groceries, clothing, hardcover books, paper products. Cherchez les femmes is the preferred marketing strategy. But guys, once yanked past the giant TVs and blast-furnace barbecues, seem content strutting around the store, eyeballing ribeyes, flexing their muscles when a case of canned peaches or a 25-pound bag of flour needs hoisting. Another mind-bender: The meat, fish, deli and bakery items are truly magnifique in quality and presentation. “Buy me,” they shout. And so many frozen foods available nowhere else. And jumbo berries, basketball-sized melons, pies bigger than hubcaps. This suggests whatever shoppers take home will be in some way, exceptional.
C’est vrai.
More important, this makes me jubilant, ready to spend. Bonne chance checking out under $100.
Alas, a dilemma. Not enough mouths to feed. I can no longer justify a side of salmon, a quart of lime-cilantro shrimp, two pounds of jumbo cashews, enough baby spinach to sink Popeye. I cannot even justify the $55 annual membership, since my forays happen half a dozen times a year when business takes me to Greensboro or Durham and I drive away with a six-month supply of vanilla, pecans, cat food, pot-stickers, clam chowder, mouthwash and toilet paper.
Yet I just mailed the check — reasonable considering la vie en rose Costco delivers.
Admitting an attachment to a building and its contents may seem odd or worse, an advertisement. Mais, non! Does the Louvre advertise Mona Lisa which, by the way, is disappointingly small?
Over a lifetime, other buildings have imprinted my psyche. I’m partial to the Grove Park Inn in Asheville, Cameron Indoor Stadium at Duke and, especially, the engineering marvel that is the Doges Palace in Venice — but with a difference.
They don’t give away samples of pumpkin ravioli.
Vive la difference! PS
Deborah Salomon is a staff writer for PineStraw and The Pilot.
She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.
