Worlds of Their Own: Good Things Come in Small Markets
Photo by Michael Piazza
I’m there for less than 5 minutes. I go in knowing exactly what I want and where to find it. I have stopped by this little convenience store often enough that I instinctively know where everything is and which brands they stock. This morning, on my way back from an errand, I’m craving something thin, flat and slightly sweet to go with my first coffee of the day, a ritual I’ve picked up from my grandmother. This little shop is stocked with ingredients made by and used by Latinx communities, like adobo and black beans, in addition to packages of ramen and dish soap. I find the same roll of Mexican cookies my grandmother likes and head to the cashier.
They’re watching a standup perform in Spanish on a TV screen mounted on the opposite wall and barely look at me while I pay. But I’m not paying attention either, too busy looking into the refrigerated case under the cashier station. Facing the customer, the case houses ice cream, cheese and more. A creamy mango ice pop draws me in and there’s something else in there, something homemade and packed in take-away coffee cups—but I don’t reach in. I avoid the bin of empanadas resting on top of the case; they’re too tempting. I’ll grab a few next time—I’ll be walking by here again soon enough.
I began coming to corner stores like this one in Jamaica Plain, Roxbury and Roslindale because I had trouble finding ingredients I was accustomed to buying at larger Mexican grocers in Chicago, where I used to live. When I arrived in the Boston area, I started dropping in whenever I saw a Costa Rican or Cuban corner store, looking for little bits of home from my own culture. Sometimes I get lucky and find something I need, a staple for my Mexican kitchen—like beans. But even if I don’t find exactly the brands I’m familiar with, I can usually pick up something that will do the trick.
Boston is home to many supermarket chains: Star Market, Whole Foods, Stop & Shop, Market Basket Roche Bros, even Wegmans has opened here. While my neighborhood Stop & Shop does have an aisle displaying some Costa Rican, Puerto Rican, Colombian and Mexican ingredients, I don’t always find the exact pickled peppers I like or the cactus I serve on tacos—and those are staples I use nearly every day. There are a few grocery stores that specifically cater to the diverse Latin American communities in the Boston area; these aren’t chains or big-box stores, just family businesses that have built a consumer base over generations. But those stores are farther away from where I live; they’re not nestled into the fabric of my neighborhood or close to other resources I need. So I’ve become a patron—among many—of my local convenience stores.
The Latinx community is not the only one being served by small convenience stores. North of Boston, Malden and Revere are home to a large community from the North African diaspora. While there are a few sizable grocery stores supplying their basic needs, there are also small convenience stores that fill the gap with specialty items. The other side of my family is Palestinian and I grew up largely outside of the U.S. So, just like I have done for the Mexican ingredients I need, I’ve built up a list of grocery stores that, together, carry all the ingredients I need to feel at home. Even still, some of the things I rely on the most can be the hardest to find.
I am just passing through Malden on a trip to Salem and I remember I can only get the one brand of Egyptian tea I love at one particular store stocked with ingredients from North Africa to Lebanon to Iraq. I grab the yellow and red box of tea and then I turn to face shelves of plastic tubs of olives: whole spectrums of purple, green and black. The tubs are unlabeled—the store’s staff must have divided and packaged the olives themselves—and they’re just the right size for snacking. I grab a tub without thinking. I can eat them with watermelon, if the tub survives the trip home.
I comment on the olives to the cashier, who tells me they’ve been a hit with local taxi drivers, many of whom are Moroccan. I laugh and tell them my own plans for the olives.
Despite vast differences in what these convenience stores sell, despite being located in different corners of Boston and serving diverse communities, they are still fairly similar. They’re all roughly the same size, with an aisle or two and products stacked up along the walls. There’s always a cold case full of drinks and cheeses, maybe some produce. Many of these are products you can’t find at your local chain supermarket. The cashier is tucked in wherever there is space. Convenience stores like these stock what supermarkets do not: most importantly, culturally specific kitchen staples.
But the similarities don’t stop there—it’s also about the way customers behave. No one is here to buy more than a few items and everyone’s normally on their way to somewhere else. People come in and out with a mission, to get that one missing ingredient they can’t find elsewhere, or simply to find a favorite snack. Most of the day it might seem like you’re the only customer, but the staff will tell you these shops are always busy; everyone’s popping in and out just as fast as you are. But once in a while people congregate at the front, just talking about something that’s come up, having a chat. Sometimes I’m one of those people.
And that’s what’s so convenient about a convenience store: It’s not just about shopping, but it can be a place to check in with your community, if you like. And if you don’t, you can also just grab some tea or biscuits—or olives or beans—and head back out into the world.
This story appeared in the Fall 2023 issue.
