Fairway Manager/Urban Thoreau reflects on grocery wars.

        The following dispatch, an insider’s view of the grocery wars, comes from the blog of Fairway Manager and Philosopher Edward Burke posted on October 25, 2010.

        “At any street corner the feeling of absurdity can strike any man in the face.” – Albert Camus

         So it has been some time since the last post; specifically, summer has past and, now, fall begins at our street corner. 

         Some time now to reflect on the past four or, five months:

         June:  The grim, early heat of June brought a violent rumor that the Café/Steakhouse was supposed to close.  News spread quickly and there was a grassroots uproar.  The Wall Street Journal covered it.  There were protesters.  Stickers and buttons.  Posters.  The 20th Precinct had to divert traffic from Broadway and hold back the crowds.  Mayor Bloomberg arrived with the police commissioner and a bullhorn.  We heard helicopters overhead.  My mother called and said, “You’re on TV, is everything Ok?” 

        Ed Koch weighed in with something about how the chef was “his boy.”  He mentioned something about roast pork, too, but I couldn’t hear it.  Al Pacino arrived.  I asked, “You’re in on this?”  Pacino responded, “No, I just want to know if you sell Chimay?”  He seemed a little unsteady on his feet so I sent him to aisle 11 with Security – there is something about Benedictine well water and monastic fermentation that is hard to resist; oddly, this vigil seems to tie in with the liturgical hours. 
 
        A petition was signed.  Then the Café story went national:  Al Roker expressed solemnity between reports of hail and tornadoes in the Great Plains; Matt Lauer cloaked himself in an air of concern and then commented how the Café closing would be “a horrible blow to this city” and then turned it back over to Meredith Viera for a story about the miraculous healing power of kittens for acid reflux patients.  1010 WINS news radio did a “man-on-the-street” piece with a reporter – “Larry from Queens” had the best line when he said, “What?  No!  The Café is closing!?!  I love their rosemary focaccia!  Can I call someone to complain?”  For some reason there was a telegram of protest from the mayor of Madrid, Spain that was brought forth which I had to have a cook translate: it said simply, that the Café closing would be sad day for New York City.  There was also an obscure reference to Franco that I didn’t quite get. 

        I took a step back from the maelstrom, lit a cigar and took it all in.  And there he was:  gold, wire-rimmed glasses that glimmered in the late afternoon sun, tousled curly hair, handing out fliers and the only way that I could describe his mood would be, glee-filled, giddy with the attention.  He was the organizer.  Of course he was.  He is a regular patron of the Café – 3 times a week, sometimes 4, always splits his entrée, and leaves a 5% tip.  Best deal in town for him.  And it immediately all made sense and I paused for a derogatory thought. 

        For my part, I took a “Save the Fairway Café” button, put in on and went about my business.  The Café stayed and, frankly, the pancakes, eggs and bacon that I eat here each Sunday morning is among the best breakfasts in the city.

         October:  I lean out of the window of my kitchen at home that glares out on to the alley between us and the building next door and the whole 10 feet that separate the buildings.  Feel the cool, fall, early evening air as night begins to almost settle in and wreathe myself in Nicaraguan smoke.  I lose my stare in the Flemish bond brick pattern in the opposing wall – a wall laid around the turn of the 20th century.  In the dim light of sunset I stare at the wall so intently that I can make out various faces in the time-stained red and orange of the bricks where they border on the cement joints; they are the faces of medieval carnival performers, friends from grammar school, old teachers, citizens in a Bruegel painting, and customers. And it is hard to take in a day, a week, a month, a year. 

         We spent August and part of September in a small anxious vigil of indecision waiting for a wretched frozen and pre-packaged food retailer from California to open a couple of blocks down.  We moved some displays around and created some room in anticipation – all good moves.  Kosher moved upstairs and now we hear it – in high def – from every Ashkenazi and Sephardi in a 10-block radius what a pain-in-the-ass it is to schlep to the 2nd floor for borscht, matzo and gefilte fish.  Makes me almost lose faith in this neighborhood – if they want schlock, let them eat schlock.  If you want “Italian” olive oil from North Africa, go for it.  They don’t sell food, they sell a price.  Now, they are here.  Small blip on the radar.  Prediction:  They are out of business in 12-14 months. 

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