26/10/98

Fowl is fare at this supermarket

    Haredim don't go in for trance parties, discos or pub crawls. But like everyone else, they enjoy a good time, a chance to -- well, not exactly let their hair down, or get dolled up; they go to the supermarket.
    Jerusalemites who get their kicks at the cinema or cafe don't know what they're missing. When evening falls in the haredi neighborhoods, housebound mommas, their scholarly husbands and prodigious broods stroll down to their local haredi super for a night out. Now that's entertainment.
    When a new hot spot opened up just off Bar-Ilan Road, I thought I'd  check it out.
    Shefa Mehadrin is not your average supermarket.
    Nighttime, during the latter half of the week, the place is mobbed. Entire families promenade down the overwide aisles pushing oversized, overstuffed trolleys. It's not solely for the chore of shopping, but, in a haredi way, to see and be seen.
    It's not your average supermarket clientele, either.
    When they buy a dozen eggs, that could mean only one per family member. Luxury items just don't sell. There's no dog food. The express cash really is express, because who queues up with 10 items or less? (I suggest they change that to "100 items or less.")
    In  some ways, though, they are still Mr. and Mrs. Average Israeli Shopper. The cell phones, for instance. And the security. Haredi mothers who could not possibly be mistaken for terrorists still have to open their purses at the door. I asked the guard if he expected to find a grenade; he shrugged. "I have to look. It's my job." That's Israel for you.
    Shefa doesn't carry fake shrimp, but on the other hand, there's a wider selection of tzitzes than at any Supersol or Co-op -- including a range of replacement tzitzes fringes (NIS 6.90 to NIS 27.90).
    Between the onions and the candles, and across from the peelers and garlic presses, are the kipot, and believe me, there's no such thing here as one style fits all. You've got your basic black fabric, black velvet, deluxe velvet (the priciest, at NIS 22.50), crocheted, leather, cotton, and for the cash-strapped, a cheapo model at NIS 7.90, white satin with gold-thread trim. 
    Meatless meat is not a big seller, but meatless veggies is. That means, of course, guaranteed no bugs. I had to wonder about priorities here: the cauliflower may be free from creepy crawlies, but it was also free from edible cauliflower, unless you love stem.
    I pushed my mostly empty trolley (we're only a family of five) past a family of nine. The seven kids were quietly sharing a can of Coke and a small bag of Bamba. Quietly sharing.  Wait till I tell my children.
    I had to make a U-turn at the tallit display ("SALE! NIS 144.90!") because there was no way to get through the throng.
    I stopped a bearded stock clerk and asked where the chickens are. He made a wide, sweeping motion with his arm. His vagueness annoyed me. But then I saw the chicken department.
    You have no idea.
    Thighs with a Belz hechsher.
    Legs for adherents of Rabbi Ovadia Yosef.
    Bellybuttons bearing the Beit Yosef kashrut seal.
    Number 3 chickens ranging in price from NIS 9.95 per kilo (Reb Auerbach) to NIS 19.90 (Landau). I went back to the bearded clerk and asked about this. "You're not just buying a chicken," he explained with a benign smile, "you're buying faith in a rabbi." Auerbach is, apparently, not as circumspect about detritus in a chicken corpse as Landau is.
    I counted 13 different hechshers. And an absolutely unbelievable 113 different bins of frozen fowl, whole or parts.
    It reminded me of a Jerusalem rabbi's recent criticism about such a thing: kashrut, he said, is meant to separate Jews from Gentiles, not Jews from Jews.
    The Kellogg's Corn Flakes, with the Badatz Manchester hechsher, seemed suspiciously similar to the stuff I buy; mind you, I never really looked that close.
    I could not find a rabbi's approval stamped on any of the wide variety of nylon stockings.
    Videotapes are, predictably, unavailable here. There was a good choice of CDs, though not much of a women's section. The book rack had such best-sellers as "Birkat Hamazon" and "Oneg Shabbat," and nearby, games that auspiciously did not include Scrabble, but did offer "Bingo Brochos" and the Rashi game.
    Not your average supermarket.
    The howling babies and tantrum-throwing toddlers -- and their utterly unflapped parents -- is the Muzak of Shefa. It's background noise you just tune out.
    The immense trolleys seemed to be specially made for this sort of store, but a cursory glance indicated a serious flaw: there's only one child's seat. They couldn't come up with a trolley that seats six or eight or ten?
    Being an investigative journalist (read: snoop), it was my duty to stealthily inspect a few trolleys, to see what these folks live on. One man was filling his trolley with nothing but junk food; I had to assume he was shopping for a kiddush, or a brit. A pair of teenage boys wandered about without a trolley; I couldn't imagine what they were here for.
    More typical was predictable basics such as diapers, baby food, anything in economy-size bulk packaging, and lots and lots of milk.
    That got me thinking.
    The Tnuva plant is just a block away. Every day, they get a huge order from Shefa. Tnuva loads the milk into the biggest truck they've got, which travels maybe 70 meters, backs up 30 meters to the nearest parking spot, then unloads all this milk, which is then reloaded into a bin. Silly, no?
    Seems obvious what they should do: run a pipeline from Tnuva to Shefa (it's downhill) and bag it there. Think of the savings in transportation and handling!
    You're probably thinking, "Ah, this guy should've been a supermarket manager, instead of a journalist."