Grocery Night Live

My favorite place in the world is any supermarket open past 9 p.m. While others meditate or go to the gym to alleviate their anxiety, I feel most powerful when I am greeted by the piercing cold of a grocery store’s sliding doors, momentarily distracted from my mind’s menu of disquietudes: the helplessness of witnessing war on screens of every size, the impending election and its consequences, the oceans between me and my family. 

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When the hours of popularity dwindle on Google to merely visible dots, that’s my prime time. My unusual coping mechanism has led me to vacuum-sealed bags of chicken tikka masala at a just-closing grocery store in Paris, to tom yum-flecked sheets of nori at a convenience store in Singapore, and staggeringly marked-down ribeyes in New York City. I’ve sobbed in more aisles of jarred salsa and instant rice than I care to recount, but I’ve also received the kindness of strangers in the form of reassuring smiles and are-you-okays. 

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Rather than sleeplessness, the search for belonging brings me to Fairway in the Upper West Side a few nights a week. Instead of the usual noise, such as P.A. announcements and the rickety staccato of unloading carts, the calm calls to my mind endless possibilities.

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In this specific silence, I pick up Cantabrian anchovies or short-ribs otherwise out of my comfort zone or budget. But instead of a lengthening receipt, my personal calculus of loss has taught me to be a more intuitive consumer. More prosaically, the peaceful excursion allows me to browse the aisles as slowly as I like and never have to wait in line.

While some may regard this habit as a self-indulgent exercise, I am instead more conscious of my adeptness as both a cook and someone seeking calm. In the grocery store, I am more mindful of the concept of currency and the ephemerality of time as I contemplate actual best-by dates. I return home with no more than a handful of items. I have learned to use what is available, to be more flexible as a recipe developer. To try that intimidating ingredient, to choose the ugly fruit, to give canned crab a chance and wilting ramps a second life. 

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I can’t deny that this is a hedonistic exercise exclusive to city dwellers. And it’s certainly a great way for tourists to explore a new city. But can the practice also be altruistic? I think so. While a good chunk of chain grocery stores in the U.S. slash prices to reflect best-by dates after 6 p.m., a friend who works at a grocery store told me that unsold food is tossed away and piles up in landfills, no exceptions. Several stores also maintain policies against handing it to employees. 

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Americans throw away 120 billion tons, or 38 percent of total food produced annually. And food waste makes up over half of total waste each year. Although food inflation stabilized by nearly 4 percent in 2023, many Americans still struggle. It calls to mind those trapped in racially redlined food deserts, those with no access to lamb or avocados or heirloom tomatoes. 

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During these late-night grocery runs, not only do I have an excuse to somnambulate, but the practice could potentially help preserve our ecosystem. Some countries believe this and are a step ahead of the curve—S Group, a Finnish supermarket chain offers daily Happy Hours at 9 p.m. onwards. During this time, red-stickered food items, initially discounted by 30 percent, receive an additional 60 percent off. In 2019, the chain reportedly sold 50 million red-sticker items, and one location noted a 25 to 30 percent decrease in waste. In the United Kingdom, chains like Tesco and Express offer a sliding scale of discounts that increase toward the end of the day, with up to 75 percent off markdowns at 8 p.m.. for items that must be sold by a particular date. 

In recent years, U.S. chain supermarkets have introduced similar initiatives focused on reducing waste. Fairway offers discounted meats after 9 p.m. nationally. Kroger and Fred Meyer offer discounts for perishable goods before 9 a.m., when they are discarded. Safeway often marks down bakery items, deli meats, and prepared foods in the evenings. Whole Foods offers similar discounts on fresh items nearing their expiration dates and has a lesser-known “clearance” cheese section as well as yellow-tagged, discounted produce. Walmart has “last hour” deals on dairy and discounted deli items after 8 p.m.

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Research shows that third places, or neighborhood locales outside of one’s home and work where they can relax, have waned in recent years. In many cities, these public and commercial spots have become less accessible than ever before due to post-pandemic small business closures, the influx of private members-only clubs, and proposed library budgets that have sapped operating hours. What makes the grocery store a vital third place is its ability to supply visitors with air conditioning, central heat, or inspiration without requiring a purchase, unlike a bar or a coffee shop. 

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But not everyone’s loci of zen is the supermarket. Some might find liminal sanctuary in the quiet hum of a dentist’s waiting room, a contemplative cab ride after a long journey home, or any establishment prone to play Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline.” You might sweat out your grief onto Pilates reformers, or escape to the virtual worlds of video games or smut literature.

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To me, though, along with therapy, the key to self-reflection and gratitude lies at the bottom of a grocery cart. Arrive late at night, and this exercise will open your eyes to produce you may otherwise sideline and incentivize you to make small talk with other wanders, to open yourself up to understanding and being understood. You might just find yourself at the end of an unfamiliar aisle. And if you don’t, there’s always tomorrow night.