I know a man whose favourite restaurant is Costco. He goes on birthdays and special occasions, starting with a browse of the free samples – a schmear of cream cheese on a tiny cracker, perhaps a mouthful of sugar-free brownie – before settling down at the food court for a £1.50 hotdog. I think of him every time I walk into Costco, which I do every couple of months, less because I need something, more because I feel drawn towards it as if a bright light. Daffodils and mountain ranges have had their poems, but few have dared, few have found the language to describe in rhyme the quiet majesty of a wholesale supermarket. It’s as if it has its own brand of affordable sun here: slightly diluted, but very moreish and you swim through it behind a tractor-sized trolley full of crisps.
For those not yet lucky enough to be invited as a cardholder’s plus one, you can dip in via a documentary that graduated recently, somehow, from Channel 5 to Netflix. I’m unclear exactly who the audience is for this kind of show, a 40-minute advert for the cash and carry, but I applaud and appreciate the effort, and under my breath offer a brief, “Good for them.” While a typical documentary like this might take you behind the scenes at a factory and show, perhaps, the making of nail varnish or a Magnum Mini, here we simply trawl the aisles and marvel at massive prosecco. Experts exclaim at the value of ketchup, tell you how the shop makes its money (membership), list the bestsellers (loo roll) and what to avoid (huge boxes of perishable fruit). I watched the show at 1.5 speed and the effect was something like sitting next to a regional aunt at lunch. But it has none of the thrill, none of the disorienting glamour I’m afraid, of stepping inside a Costco yourself.
