In Praise of the Independent Shops

Yes, I go to Sainsbury’s or The Cooperative supermarket when the loo roll (aka toilet paper) and kitchen towel (aka paper towels) run low, as those are the only places locally in Cowes to restock. But let me need to buy dinner, and you’ll only find me at the supermarket when my local butcher or fish monger is closed; I am a born-again fan of the butcher, and all local shops for that matter.

I say born again because some of my earliest memories of shopping go back to visiting Mike the butcher on the Boulevard in Jersey City, where it was the occasional treat to get fresh mince (chop meat for the Americans) or a fresh bit of rolled meat for Sunday dinner. It was, I recall, not often that my mother or grandmother would go there—quality notwithstanding, buying from the butcher cost more than from the supermarket. Heading just across the boulevard to Mike’s—we lived within view of his store—was more out of necessity when other options didn’t exist—the local A&P was a bit of a walk and there wasn’t always transportation to the PathMark or ShopRite on Route 440, too far to go on foot.

If you were chosen to walk over to the butcher—it was never all of us, usually just one or two—you were almost always treated to a slice of bologna while you waited. I never really liked bologna from any other place but Mike’s, and wouldn’t seek it out today, but there was something about that fresh, slightly thicker slice of Thumann’s that made it worth the trip. Our neighbours Helen and Barbara would sometimes ask if we wanted to walk over, when my sisters or brothers and I were playing something or other on the sidewalk—wiffle ball, badminton, or jump rope.  Off we’d go, hoping Mike would find the time to put the bologna on the slicer and pass one across the counter.

The experience of visiting the butcher is a bit different now—not that I wouldn’t turn down a slice if the gentleman at Hamilton’s offered me, LOL. I first pause in the shop window first, under the striped awning, to think about what I want. In many cases I already know it’ll be steak or lamb, but I still like taking a look; it’s mostly because I want to see if they have what I want on offer. The butchers are friendly, like Mike was, and I am occasionally asked something about America as my accent gives me away. There are lovely other things in the shop—local cheeses, jars of condiments and local relishes, local produce. I rarely turn down a small package of Isle of Wight tomatoes sitting on the counter as they are superb or the roasted garlic bulbs perched in a basket.

As with most things, simple preparation best suits—an onion sliced and sautéed in olive oil before the steaks are grilled, the pan piping hot; a bit of garlic infused into the lamb before roasting in the oven. And each time, Tim and I will look across the table at each other and find some superlative to describe that first bite. Think delicious. No, think amazing.

The same holds true for the local fish shop—such a pretty array of choices, often locally sourced, that taste far better than anything supermarket bought. I am most pleased when there is samphire in a silver bucket on ice in their window; it is a plant that looks like miniature cacti and tastes of the sea, fresh and salty. Granted, some of the larger supermarkets in London have delightful fish counters, but here on the IoW I’m more inclined to have pasta or vegetables on those evenings when I arrive after the shops on the high street have long shut, and then start planning the dinners at home with Tim by what looks good under the awning or on ice across the road the next day.

The high street in Cowes boasts quite a few independent shops, in fact, including a health food store, a vegetable shop, a food hamper that has an interesting array of different items from wasabi to unusual sweet and savoury biscuits, and a fantastic wine shop that will sell you small tastes of numerous bottles. It’s where I know I can buy my newest favourite, torrontes, a fresh, vibrant white from Argentina.  And I’m excited to read in the local paper that there will be a monthly market on the high street on Sundays this summer, with stalls crammed with local produce and crafts. I will want to make sure that the market coincides with the weekends I find myself here, walking along the sea front and daydreaming about a fantastic dinner at home.

Tim and I seem to manage in the small Cowes kitchen. Our duties are often the same as when we are in London: I prepare the salad, set the table, and assist with the preparation. I make suggestions, but usually let Tim handle the pots and pans. He peels the potatoes and the garlic. I know the right place in my palm to press and then gentle do the same to the steak to be sure it’s medium. I pour the wine (though we often choose together what it will be) and keep the water glasses filled. I usually load the dishwasher, though Tim often volunteers (and in London I often let him have at it).

We don’t always eat in, and have our local favourites—the Cowes Tandoori shop that sits between two others on the high street that serves delicious food and of the three has the best service, hands down. The two waitstaff will wave to Tim and me when we pass along the high street, in fact; I find that charming. We less often go to the Thai place, though we always enjoy it—the women there are quite amusing with their abrupt manner of service yet they treat us well and the food is superb. Naturally we find our way to the pubs now and again. Always popular is the Island Sailing Club where the bartender is friendly (and has forgiven me for “ruining” his dark and stormy by, gasp, stirring it) and the food is always good, plentiful, and inexpensive. The club wins for having the best view this side of Cowes, situated directly on the waterfront, and it’s a wonderful place to bring newcomers to the Isle or meet our friends, most of whom are also members.

And before you think that I am a snob who pooh-poohs the supermarket, I will say that our local Cooperative carries a brilliant stash of local produce and other locally-sourced items from the Garlic Farm and the bakery, etc, which I keep in mind when I shop.

I am glad that all of these shops can peacefully coexist on the high street, and am grateful that I can pick and choose where to shop, helping to keep the independent ones thriving. We’ve even got into the habit of doing the same in London, frequenting the grocery on Green Lanes that usually has everything we need but the main course.  We go there often enough to be treated with a warm hello and a hearty thank you. The supermarket isn’t far, but it doesn’t have any of the warmth. You can’t smell the fresh Turkish bread just out of the oven at Tesco, but you can around the corner on Green Lanes. And that reminds me of home, living in Harrison steps away from Pechter’s Bakery where the neighbourhood smelled like fresh-baked bread for a few hours each morning.

Catch you on the high street. I’ll be the one peering in the window, a bit lost in a daydream of some sort, likely about my next delicious meal..