Dal fruttivendolo (alla COOP)

Teaching my students how to do the groceries (fare la spesa) in Italy usually looks (and sounds) something like this (minus the "sei pazzo, ti do un pugno in faccia" bit). That's okay. More than anything else, it's an exercise in vocabulary -- fruits, vegetables, cold cuts, milk, eggs, other key products --, learning and using measurements (etti and kg), an introduction to the partitive use of the particella "ne," and an opportunity to get students talking comfortably with each other in a situation that theoretically simulates real life.

 Only, it doesn't. Alright. Sometimes it does. But it no longer has to in most places.

 There was a time, not that long ago, when the most quality-effective and budget-friendly way to shop for groceries in Italy was to stop individually - and, often, daily - in locations specialized in one of a shopper's various needs. There's the fruttivendolo (fruit merchant, literally) for fruits and vegetables, the macelleria (butcher) for fresh meat, salumeria (deli) for cured meats, the latteria (dairy store or creamery) for milk and cheeses (also sometimes found at the salumeria), the panetteria (bakery) for breads, foccacce, and schiacce, and the pasticceria (pastry shop) for pastries, cakes, cookies, and other sweet delights, the pescivendolo for fish, the tabaccheria for tabacco, bus tickets, stamps. It all makes perfect sense; Italians, as a people, like everything in its right place. In fact, a large part of their food culture is based on this very principle: certain ingredients can - and should - be eaten together, but improper combinations (which are not that difficult to make, as gastronomic rules here tend to err on the side of rigidity) are considered fatal enough to get you banned from the kitchen and stripped of any culinary credibility.

 Coccoli are to be consumed exclusively with stracchino. Don't you dare get squacquerone instead (the nerve).

Not surprisingly, Italians aren't big on "fusion."

In some places, usually smaller communities both in the north and in the south, this way of shopping is still current. But by now, the "Supermarket" alternative, once considered a poor man's "mercato coperto" (indoor market), has grown to industrial proportions. What started out as an out-of-the-way but convenient one-stop-option for those with cars willing to drive outside city limits (or nearly) has grown into the most popular choice, especially among city-dwellers, and even among casalinghe (housewives). I learned the hard way: never do your groceries on a Friday night two hours before closing unless you want to wait in line at the cash register for twice as long as it took you to find everything you needed.

And you can find everything you need at the supermarket.

What is more, you can find it the way you would in America. That is to say, local options are made just as available as imported options (or almost, except when it comes to produce, which still depends on local seasonal availability). Processed goods are presented alongside fresh goods (available at individual counters, like in the US). The many "erie" shops described above are contained in the concentrated space of a store floor. Even in a small village like my father's, in Molise, where there is only one, supermarkets - although realistically closer to privately owned "mini-markets" - offer variety and selection beyond the basics. Cosimo's got you.

Let's step back a little. As history has shown, Italians do notoriously prefer local (or at least distinctly Italian) products ... just not in the way Americans are coming to prefer their own. Shopping local in Italy grew out of need: for a long time, Italians lacked any other options. Of course, history has also shown us that Italians and Americans follow opposite trends at opposite times. Where Italy is now veering toward America's "Big Bang" approach to food consumption, even in Italian-conceived enterprises like Eataly, Blue-state liberals continue to make a growing case for buying local and stimulating local economy. You might think it would make sense for Italians to want to do the same in their current economic crisis -- that is, to revert back to a model that helped them thrive internationally in a period that witnessed the increasing valorization of "artisanal" everything. You might think that a move toward the more industrial and capitalist model represented by a large supermarket chain is part of what led to Italy's economic downfall. You might even be right.

But it's difficult to say with any certainty which came first: the agglomeration of supermarkets in major urban areas, or the radical rise in price at local specialized shops. In theory, the franchises that still dominate most of central and Northern Italy - Esselunga, Coop, Pam - were all founded between 1957 and 1967. But When I came to Florence for a short study abroad program in 2005, the only real alternatives to Mercato San Lorenzo or individualized shops were the Dico steps away from home (where I could find cleaning products, but not fresh milk) and an Esselunga in a remote place (it seemed) that no one told my roommates and I existed. Our preparatory guides to touring and staying in Italy focused on conversing with street merchants and relying on the availability of their local businesses. It worked most of the time, but never on Sundays, and rarely past 6 or 7pm on any other day. Since then, I have only seen supermarkets grow and flourish in Florence -- and in Florence proper. Over the past three years, I have inhabited three different apartments here, all an easy walk to the city center. There is an Esselunga within ten to fifteen minutes (walking) of each, and a Coop within five minutes (driving) of two of them, or a fifteen minute walk away from one. And where they are overflowing with local residents weighing their fruit, ordering fresh bread, and lingering too long in the coffee aisle, the local stores closer to home are all empty, not quite out of business, but not quite in it, either; neither dead nor thriving.

My Florentine roommates explained it to me once: sure, they would love to shop at Sara's bakery just around the corner. But a loaf of Sara's bread costs 3.50 euro. At Esselunga, they pay half that amount for the same quantity at a minimal (negligible) sacrifice of quality. The bread is still fresh, still local. It's just that its ingredients have been controlled by a larger entity.

More than likely, as is the case with local bookstores competing with national and international establishments, Sara was forced to raise her prices to pay the rent, as the Esselunga down the street was putting her out of business. But the average Italian is not thinking of Sara: the average Italian is thinking of himself, and he has to pinch pennies, too. He might splurge on fresh tomatoes or apricots at the stand across the street from the piazza near work on his way home. But that's where he draws the line. He has priorities.

The greatest patrons of smaller businesses are still elderly customers loyal to shop owners and community focal points, and, sadly, tourists - but only because they don't know any better.

Of course, when inviting friends over to dinner, especially in large groups, shopping at Coop is almost out of the question; fresh everything or bust. "Bella figura" is still a thing here - Italians' guests deserve the best ... because the hosts can afford it.

Sunday night, my (Italian, I should specify) boyfriend and I went to Pam and picked up some Old El Paso soft taco shells. Fine. Call me "'na amerighan'" but I was happy. I certainly won't find those at Sara's or Girolamo's.