Everything about Costco is embarrassingly big, even for Americans.
We had people coming over for dinner, so that meant a Costco run. Before we even stepped inside our local Costco warehouse, near the Pentagon, we had to make our first choice. It was, of course, between two large items.
Did we want the regular shopping cart, which is “regular” in the sense that a Humvee is a normal sized car? Or did we need the bright-orange flatbed dolly big enough to carry, say, a refrigerator?
We needed only a few things — wine, cheese, chicken, raspberries — so we grabbed a cart, flashed our membership card ($60 a year) to the ladies in red aprons at the door and rolled into a cavern as big as a New York City block.
It was a weekday afternoon, but there were still hundreds of shoppers as we passed a half-dozen 85-inch TVs, stacks of office printers, huge bags of pretzels dipped in strawberry yoghurt.
Everything about Costco is embarrassingly big, even for Americans.
The ceilings must be 40ft high. You can’t buy 12 eggs, but you can get a pallet of three dozen for the same price. The monster bags of dog food need a weightlifter to hoist them into the cart.
But when having a party, who can resist the 17-pound rack of boneless rib-eyes for $200? Or the 48 pastry puffs triangles stuffed with spinach and feta for $10.
Costco is now the world’s third-largest retailer, behind Walmart and Amazon. Costco opened its first warehouse in Seattle in 1983 and now has more than 600 across the United States. It’s expanding overseas with more than two dozen stores in the UK. New Zealand, Sweden and Iceland each have one Costco. France and Spain have two.
In Mexico City, Costco just opened a store bigger than London’s O2 centre, the largest store in the country.
In the United States these days, Costco, unlike some retailers, has the added benefit of being not closely identified with any political party. The company has largely avoided the taint of politics that has affected so much of American life, especially in this presidential election year. Costco’s website notes: “We have found that the majority of our members appreciate the fact that our atmosphere is devoid of politics – so we strive to keep it that way.”
We originally got our Costco membership in the 1990s for the great deals. Costo creates that kind of magical thinking: you spend $600 and you believe you saved money. That’s because Costco is a coy temptress, leaving the most frugal shopper with the impulse-control of a piranha.
Do you need a pink begonia? Not really, but it’s so pretty and just $14! Let’s get three! How about “testosterone support pills?” Well, no. I mean, seriously, no. But 120 pills for just $29? Shopgasm.
Now we come for the serendipity of finding some kitchen appliance or patio chair only sold that day at that store, and it’s oddly fascinating to watch other customers. Why is that young woman buying 36 cans of tomato paste and 7 pounds of tiramisu? Look, there’s a US ambassador we know buying boxer shorts and Veuve Clicquot.
When looking up Costco facts online, we came across an ILoveCostco.com blog and tracked down its founder, a 56 year-old Californian web developer named John.
“I used to go to Costco every Friday night, even if I didn’t have to buy anything,” he said. That was when he had very little money and sat in the café eating the $1.50 hot dog and soda special.
He said he finds the vibe of the store comforting: “It relaxes my soul.”
On our recent visit, we tried to stay focused on our list for the party. We blew by the aisles of bedding and towels and the 50 tables stacked high with clothes, where shoppers were trying on Skechers sneakers and Eddie Bauer hoodies.
We avoided eye contact with the lady offering free hearing exams (near a display of $1,500 hearing aids).
The Argentinian Malbec and New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc were still a football field away.
We were curious about a hot new Costco item we had heard about on the news: a one-ounce gold bar selling for around $2,000.
“If we got some in today, they would be gone by now,” said Scott, a clerk in red vest, checking his watch. He said they are kept at the jewellery counter. “But it’s too late now. They’re gone an hour after we open.”
We stopped at the free sample stands to taste Basque sheep cheese and Andouille sausage. We may have taken more than one Lindt dark chocolate truffle ball.
And we did succumb to the allure of a glass Sur La Table electric teakettle for $22. We already had a nice kettle at home. But this was such a good deal, it seemed wrong to just leave it sitting there on the shelf.
We finally checked out with four nice reds and four whites, French brie and Spanish Manchego, a mega-pack of chicken breasts, tubs of fresh raspberries and a restaurant-sized can of olive oil — and our kettle. The bill was $200. Not bad.
Especially because it was also a welcome respite from the madness of Washington politics just across the Potomac River. Here there were no political divisions, just all kinds of people united in appreciation for big deals and big stuff.
‘Merica, baby.