Chives Wellington I.
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My first visit to Wegmans in Princeton, New Jersey left me questioning nearly everything I thought I knew about grocery shopping and, frankly, civilization. The adventure began in the car park, which can only be described as chaotic neutral. Vehicles moved in every possible direction at once, their drivers seemingly guided not by lanes or logic but by pure instinct. At one point, I found myself circling for so long I half expected to need refueling before even entering the store. In Somerset, we park on quiet cobblestone streets beside a modest green grocer. Here, it felt more like preparing for a military campaign. Upon finally entering, I stood frozen for a moment, struck dumb by the sheer scale of the place. It is not a grocery store, it is a cathedral to consumer choice. There are entire aisles dedicated to yogurt. Rows upon rows of bread, each claiming to be the most “artisanal.” A cheese section so vast it appeared to have its own weather system. I even discovered an olive bar, which feels like something the Roman Empire might have built just before collapsing. The prepared foods section was particularly astonishing, sushi, pizza, roast chickens, even a café serving lattes and pastries. At one point, I began to worry I might never find the exit and would instead spend the remainder of my exile wandering among the gluten-free muffins, slowly losing my grip on time. And yet, despite the overwhelming abundance, it’s rather wonderful. The staff are cheerful, the produce gleams as though polished, and there is a sense of optimism in every aisle, as if the American dream itself has been refrigerated for freshness. In the end, I emerged victorious, clutching a reusable bag filled with groceries and existential questions. Wegmans is vast, overwhelming, and entirely absurd but I must confess, I rather loved it.
