ArcaMax

Almost two years ago, I begged Joe -- Trader Joe, that is -- to send another of his clever grocery emporiums to where I live. I wrote:

We have so many people, Joe, denizens who request, nay, demand your low prices, friendly staff and flavor combinations not available from Larry Q. Publix. Trail mix with mung beans. Vegan tzatziki. Greek elote yogurt dip. We just want mayonnaise corn yogurt, OK? Why are you doing this to us?

Shortly after publishing that plea, I realized Joe was a real person who died in 2020. I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize to the family for harassing him at rest.

Well, it happened. Earlier this year, Trader Joe's announced a new store coming to Palm Harbor, in the Tampa Bay area of Florida, in the same plaza as the gym where I regularly do split squats while dreaming of dark chocolate peanut butter cups. While surely the business decision happened independent of my haranguing a dead man via local news, it felt as though I had rubbed a genie bottle. I could have wished so many things into existence, yet what I manifested was a grocery store.

Surf ahead to this week's grand opening. As I approached just before 9 a.m., I couldn't help feeling a pit in my stomach, a stomach starved for Everything but the Bagel seasoning. With so many dire issues facing this world, international conflicts raging and conversations of class consciousness boiling in America, was fetishizing a retail store in a strip mall sinister? Was this merely a display of consumerism topped with a dollop of overstimulation? Despite affordable sumo oranges and frozen cuisines of the world, would another suburban Trader Joe's fix anyone?

The once-sleepy parking lot was teeming. I dropped my car in a bush and hustled toward the queue that wrapped around the building. A guy played "Jump in the Line" by Harry Belafonte on the steel drums. It was 58 degrees.

That's when a friend called my name, which happens to be her name. Stephanie Catsikopolous, one of my most outgoing compatriots, was chatting away with strangers. Before Trader Joe's stores opened closer, she used to drive to Sarasota with a cooler. The new store marked a culinary milestone for Other Stephanie, who did not have a whiff of hesitation or self-doubt. It was like seeing my less nihilist reflection.

In line, we met enthusiasts like Shayna Jackson, who remembered going to Trader Joe's for fresh produce with her father in Larchmont, New York, before it was today's trendy behemoth. When her dad died last year days before Thanksgiving, the family ate frozen Trader Joe's food for the holiday. She clutched her freezer bags, smiling as we motored toward the door.

Feeling hot, hot, hot!

"I hope we get a commemorative bag," Stephanie said.

Clerks in tropical shirts handed us commemorative bags, woohoo! Shoppers hoisted fresh wreaths and flowers, ran for the fine cheeses at fair prices, snagged boxes of sweet and spicy gender nonconforming Gingerbread People. I gasped at the cacophony of sights and sounds.

"Jingle Jangle!" Stephanie said, and we skittered toward the tins of chocolate-covered pretzels, popcorn, Joe-Joe's cookie bits and candy gems. This is different from Jingly Jangly, the new, portable version of the snack, or Jingle Jangle for Dogs, which is... never mind.

"Stand in front of the alcohol!" my friend said, and she snapped my picture looking stoic near a wall of peppermint cream liqueur. "Spice aisle! Do you like chili lime? Do you like mushroom umami?"

I do, in fact, like mushroom umami, so I started dropping spice blends into my commemorative bag. We hit up the holiday cards and glittered poinsettia plants and free samples (more Jingle Jangle).

"Thank you for opening!" Stephanie said to all the clerks. As they returned huge smiles, I realized I was having ridiculous fun. This bacchanal of pretzel bread pudding and truffle salami and stuffed Chalkidiki olives and turkey harvest salads was hectic, and pumping $32 back into the gears of commerce would not solve society's problems. But being around so many silly, happy people felt fortifying, a tiny reminder that it's OK to be excited about things, to like things, to partake in activities with glee and abandon. Plus, I found my peanut butter cups.

Back in the parking lot, we dodged more cars, steel drums still tittering. It would be an incredible news story when we got mowed down, Jingle Jangle strewn about the ground.

"Put it on the stone," Stephanie said, unflappable. "She died doing what she loved."

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Stephanie Hayes is a columnist at the Tampa Bay Times in Florida. Follow her at @stephhayes on X or @stephrhayes on Instagram.

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