Going to the Big Tesco
looking for more than groceries
The unbeatable feeling that comes from going to a supermarket at night. At first glance one of the more mundane ways you could spend your evening, it is in fact a space of wonder, self-discovery and enlightenment. Am I perhaps overpraising the experience? Yes. But I’m certainly not the first to do so — this has been going on for generations.
Across social media, there’s the acknowledgement that ‘going to the big supermarket’ (generally Tesco or Sainsbury’s are namechecked — the vibe of a big Asda tends to be much more unpleasant) is an activity that one embarks on by choice, looking forward to it rather than treating it like the domestic task that it appears to be. Dating apps see people searching ‘for someone to go to the big Sainsbury’s with’, and back when I was a student it wasn’t unusual for a tale of an eventful night to have some passing mention of the local big Tesco.
Not only has this phenomenon survived the rapid online culture cycle to stand, as its subject does, a quiet constant in society, but it dates back about as far as supermarkets do. From a social history aspect, the supermarket changed the game, offering a hub where everything you needed was close at hand, rather than streets apart. As the shopping format gained popularity, it’s understandable that people were enamoured with supermarkets. Now they’re ubiquitous rather than groundbreaking, but the fascination remains.
There’s nothing inherently special or even very interesting about these places, especially in an age of availability (well, in theory). They’re strip-lit warehouses that tend to always be out of whatever specific product you need, the place you struggle back home from weighed down by overfilled shopping bags. Yet as day turns to night, and the need to do the weekly shop is no longer the priority, the big Tesco gains a different, dare I say spiritual, quality.
Being somewhere outside of your usual hours is always appealing, the hint of transgression making the regular seem that little bit more interesting — being in school on a weekend, with the corridors empty and echoing, or at an office after everyone’s gone home and all you can hear is the distant sound of a vacuum cleaner clearing up the day’s dust and detritus. Of course, there aren’t set ‘times’ to be at a supermarket. That’s kind of their whole point, their convenience and near-constant availability. But being somewhere familiar outside the remit of your weekly routine can make you see things in a different light.
Going on a brief literary tangent, Allen Ginsberg’s ‘A Supermarket in California’ goes a long way to express what makes this setting so important. There’s often a feeling of connection to others wandering the aisles, a thrown-together group congregated in a refrigerated cathedral listening to the choral arrangements of a corporate playlist and reading the tracts of the biscuit boxes.
Have you ever gone to a supermarket and found its doors closed? It’s always a slightly jarring, unnerving feeling, and another reason to dislike Sunday afternoons. Maybe it’s the hunter-gatherer instincts kicking in, a primal fear of scarcity making its way through aeons of evolution. Surely this is how my ancestors felt when they saw the fruit tree looking a little sparse, or the fish population dwindling. Even if you’re not going to buy something, standing amongst the plethora of delights on the shelves (giant boxes of Cheerios! Expensive dried fruits! The slightly stale, end-of-day offerings of the bakery department!) and existing in a space designed to provide sustenance has a strange kind of comfort and sense of safety to it.
Consumerism, thy name is Sainsbury’s. How many times have I found myself wandering home late at night, clutching a selection of seemingly random items that I’ve been seduced into buying by minor discounts or tempting marketing? Although, the collection I find myself with is never truly without reason. They’re carefully selected, each one representing a particular late-night fixation. Perhaps it’s some sort of illness-prevention product, inspired by a frantic fear of getting sick. Or maybe I’m leaving with a bag of frozen fruit in one hand and a pot of yogurt under my arm, ready to settle in for a languid summer evening.
Along with these more pleasant reasons for ending up in a supermarket of an evening (e.g. buying little treats and snacks, or using the freezer aisles to cool down when the weather is oppressively hot), I often end up in a supermarket in times of crisis. Maybe it’s that comfort and familiarity of the setting, or the anonymity of being just another shopper drifting through a repetitive, innocuous process as the cashiers count down the minutes until their shifts end, but I find that the setting allows thoughts and emotions to work themselves out unimpaired. While I might leave with my arms weighed down by snacks, my heart may be a little lighter.
Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself, harping on about the beauty of the place where, in the last few weeks, I have been irked by missing products, witnessed physical altercations and been far too close to an upsetting number of loud, complaining children. But all of those little annoyances fade away as day turns to night. The children are in bed, those seeking the thrills of petty crime are finding their entertainment elsewhere. And me? I’m wandering the aisles, searching for something — I’m not sure what yet. Peace? Maybe. Or perhaps just some pretzels.
Extensive info on the history of supermarkets: https://www.groceteria.com
