Whole Foods really needs to rename its complaints department ‘First World Problems’.
Don’t get me wrong. I love the place. Coming as I do from a small Caribbean island it’s a treasure trove of high-quality goods and its aisles are paved with gold.
But it does seem to attract a certain type (don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean).
While visiting my parents recently I made a trip to their nearest branch and overheard some gems.
So much so that next time I’m shopping I’m taking a notepad and pen with me.
Overheard in Whole Foods:
“Getting carded to buy Kombucha makes me feel like a better class of alcoholic”
A woman carrying a pizza and speaking to her boyfriend: “Of course it’s gluten-free. It came from the deli counter.”
“People are screaming for their freedom in the Ukraine. Here they’re screaming for more tomatoes at the salad bar.”
“I hate that they are always asking me to donate to charity at the check-out. If I wanted a guilt-trip I’d have gone shopping with my mother.”
“What am I going to do? They’re out of the Spanish goat’s cheese and the dog won’t eat any other kind.”
“You know, you can really get a balanced meal if you hit the free food stations in order.”
“Milkthistle. Does that come from a cow?”