Baking Grace

To those who found the preceding post far too abstract, I apologize. I know that few people may want to read the thematic ramblings of a crazed grad student who suffers from a mental illness in which she connects utterly dissimilar events, objects, and quotations to eachother in a late-night blog post. Hopefully, though, for those of you of this ilk, this post will seem slightly more fulfilling. 

Let's face it: New Yorkers have a reputation. I see it played out before me every day. Especially when I go grocery shopping. You see, rather than pay the outrageous Manhattan prices, once every few weeks I make the trek to Shoprite in Brooklyn. It's at least a three-hour adventure, assuming I have a grocery list in hand and the lines aren't too long. But I make up the price of a metro trip in a couple of cans of diced tomatoes, so I think it's worth it. Plus, I get a cultural experience. The first time I went, I had barely wanted in the door when a lady with a strong Brooklyn accent held out small votive candles and asked me, "You want some Shabbos candles?" My befuddlement was clearly visible (though I did know what "Shabbos" was): "You're not Jewish are you?" she commented. Umm, no. She walked off, rolling her eyes as if to say, Great. One of them again. Yes, I'm one of them, as evidenced by the fact that I spent nearly fifteen minutes circling the store in search of ground pork.

Then there are the checkout lines. The magazines that would normally advertise everything from Marie Osmond's latest of weightloss treatment to the best way to baste your turkey are covered with black pieces of plastic, no doubt in consideration of the Orthodox Jewish inhabitants. 

But my favorite Shoprite cultural moment? I was just about to check out, when I saw a wizened couple shuffling the other way. They were at least 60, bearing the marks of a long and familiar existence, and the wife was scolding her husband in the thickest New York accent I had ever heard. "You didn't get the can of beans? I thought I told you to get the beans..." I couldn't help but think, It's true! Jewish mothers, they're real! It could have been a scene straight out of Seinfeld. 

But perhaps the thing New Yorkers are most known for is their, ahem, hospitality. New York drivers, New York soup Nazis, we've all heard about them. So it was with complete astonishment that I experienced a fragment of commercial hospitality that I have a hard time imagining happening even in relatively cozy Rochester, MN. I had gone into my little corner housewares store to get a baking sheet on which to make homemade bread. You know, one of those tiny Manhattan housewares stores that are about two feet wide and twenty feet deep? But I had stopped unexpectedly at another store right before to get a just-remembered item, and I consequently lacked the cash necessary to buy the pan of the ideal size I wanted. But I didn't realize this until I was at the cash register. I apologized, and moved to exchange the pan for a smaller, cheaper one commensurate with the cash funds in my hand. 

"Don't worry about it," the shop (owner?) drawled, waving his hand in a laissez-faire dismissal not compatible with laissez-faire economics. "I'll just mark how much you owe on the receipt, and you can bring in the difference next time." 

My jaw dropped. He was spotting me the money? Here he was, a man I had never even met before, much less knew, forgiving the $2.87 I owed him and trusting me to come pay him back? He wrote the total down on the receipt, with such nonchalance that I guessed he knew he may not see the money again, but still wasn't bothered by such a loss.

I returned to my apartment, a few blocks away. And don't worry, I did return to the shop a few days later, when I returned the $2.87 along with the value of another purchase. The guy who had forgiven me the money wasn't there, so I have it to a different cashier, who look confused at my action. I guess he doesn't ordinarily have people give him more than what is written on the receipt. 

Perhaps, I reflected, he was just as confused as I was. I had not expected a businessman, and a New York one at that, to show such faith in a complete stranger. He forgave my debt and let me buy my pan, despite the very likely possibility that he would never recover the money. Yet I could hardly believe it. Maybe it is not so strange then, that the second cashier was so bemused. Perhaps he did not expect the recipient to appreciate that grace, any more than I expected to receive it in the first place. Yet I returned with the money, and from now on I try to shop at that store whenever I need something of the kitchen/housewares type.  Who knew that grace would so exceptionally descend, and that it would come in the form of a baking sheet?