Something to Declare

Heat magazine editor Sam Delaney attempts to decode the Continent's cultural differences

IN ITALY THEY ARE SUPERMERCATI, IN France supermarchés and in Greece they are, well, I don’t know what they call them there actually but I’m sure it sounds more enticing than “Tesco Metro”. You can forget dusty old churches or crumbling historical ruins: these wondrous cathedrals of consumerist worship are the real cultural attractions of any holiday abroad. At least they’re the first places I seek out as soon as I’ve got to my holiday retreat, unpacked my bags and spent an hour or so working out how to put the hire car into gear.

The moment I park up outside one of these foreign grocery stores and get behind the wheel of one of their authentically derelict old shopping trolleys, an exciting tingle skips down my spine; I am truly immersed in a strange and exotic world. The weird misshapen vegetables, the 800 different types of olive oil, the rows of inflatable pool toys, those chocolate bars with names like “Twat”. These aren’t just convenient, they’re educational too. You could walk around a rubbishy castle or dreary old museum for days and not really learn as much about a foreign land as you can in 10 minutes at the grocer’s. And just as walking around a branch of Asda in the UK will lend accurate insight into the earthy, unpretentious and morbidly obese nature of the indigenous people, so walking around the Spanish equivalent shows us that the locals are passionate, demanding shoppers (who are also addicted to extra-high-tar fags).

Once inside, my modus operandi is always the same. First I like to grab a bottle or two of pot-luck booze – you know, the sort of blue- or green-coloured local hooch you never quite realise the power of until later when you’re spewing into the bidet? Then it’s off to the delicatessen where you tear off a ticket and wait your turn to be abused and humiliated by an intolerant counter girl. You ask her for a tub of stuffed olives; she tuts and serves you 18 slices of smoked goats’ tongue. You try your best to pronounce the word “mozzarella”; she rolls her eyes and hands you a tub of tripe in garlic.

Oh well, it’s quite good fun to try a few local delicacies, you think to yourself as you smile and wheel your trolley to the checkout. Still, cultural acclimatisation can only go so far and, thankfully for Englishmen like me, most European supermarkets stock English breakfast tea. The bad news for Spanish tourists in the UK, however, is that our cigarettes are very expensive and girlishly low in tar. Sorry.

ILLUSTRATION: SPENCER WILSON / SYNERGY ART