The Triangle Place

There's a grocery store three blocks away from our apartment that Tomm and I refer to as "The Triangle Place."  It has a name - something about sanguine trees and a farm - but it sounds silly and doesn't make sense so we call it The Triangle Place.  It is situated on its own tiny, triangular island near a six-way intersection, and its entrance is obscured by the stairs leading to the train platform above.  Its lights are always on, illuminating the produce that lines two sides of the building.  Day and night, heaps of potatoes, mounds of onions, various types of peppers and tomatoes, and numerous other mislabeled vegetables glow in florescent pools of light.  There is fruit, too, usually well-priced if not the most fresh, but certainly a better deal than the next closest grocery store whose produce prices are three times as much.  If I'm going to end up throwing it out anyway, better to throw out the less expensive option.

Inside the isles are cramped, and the old linoleum floor bends unevenly and curls at the edges.  Despite its small size, I often forget where everything is because unlike the large, well-lit grocery stores of the Midwest, this store feels more like the basement office in a house.  You know, the one for which the bright eyed new owners had high hopes and envisioned as the perfect work space, but which instead turned into a storage space for holiday decorations, outgrown clothes, and unappreciated birthday gifts.  Still, the shelves are well-stocked, the products make the best use of the space allotted, and its not uncommon to leave with unexpected goodies instead of the few groceries you went looking for but never found.

The establishment is like the United Nations of grocery stores.  Located on the edge of a Jewish shtetl, it is designed to cater to a Hispanic population, if its tortillas, fajita shells, and the aisle devoted to Goya canned goods are any indication.  Still, nestled between the cans of refried beans and corn, and just below the tortilla wraps, are Jewish foods with Hebrew on the labels, and bottles of Kedem grape juice stand alongside Jarritos.  Meanwhile, behind the counter is usually a young Russian woman in her 20s.  One Friday afternoon when the sun, already hidden behind the apartment buildings, edged toward the horizon, I overheard this cashier wish an undeniably Jewish patron a gut Shabbos.  And tonight, a young Jewish girl payed for her Mexican groceries with a Muslim cashier while Arabic music played from behind the counter.

The Triangle Place is a miniature embodiment of Brooklyn - cramped, dingy, but always available, the things you need usually in stock, and bustling with every nationality represented.  There is nothing glamorous about it, but it has its treasures if you look hard enough.