I’ve been eying this thing with a combination of bemusement, anxiety, and awe from the #6 bus for quite a while, without ever finding occasion to enter. Last night, feeling mildly peckish, I figured I’d use the search for a snack as an excuse to skip a bus and scope it out.
I cannot recall an environment making me feel more closely observed or deeply suspected since passing through Heathrow Airport as a scruffy student during the “troubles.”
Approaching the entrance I passed 3 police chatting with a uniformed Walgreen managerial type on the sidewalk. I wondered if there had just been an incident of some kind to account for the concentration of uniforms but saw no evidence of it. They eyed me casually but unmistakably as I entered.
The immediate effect of the space is of being on the set of one of those 70s sci-fi movies about a dystopian near future. Washed in uniform florescent blue-white, huge islands of circular shiny steel displays; giant self-serve slushy-smoothie-icee-juicy-fro-yo-latte-soft-serve-goop machines with over-sized levers and nozzles pointing at you; smiling Walbots behind the counters, acres of space—both vertical and horizontal—and virtually no customers. Just eerie quiet.
As I gazed at the landscape a petite security guard passed me, made pretty deliberate eye-contact, and moved on. As did I.
At first glance the place seems to want to look like a Whole Foods in space. But on inspection, the piles of neatly wrapped maki, sandwiches, salads, etc. look like about the same level of stuff as the late-night sandwich truck guy brought by the dorm in the 70s. On the shelves, brand-name items seem a bit overpriced; sometimes more than a bit. The new “Nice” house brand seems like decent value. All the merchandising is geared to making you buy 2 or more to get a discount. Nothing seems to be on sale per single unit.
I thought about trying something exuded from one of the giant machines, but everything was about $5 for the smallest cup, so I passed. I then went into museum visitor mode. And every time I came to the end of an aisle, or circled around a giant display, there was the petite security guard, just happening by me.
Perhaps the most bizarre section is the liquor area, replete with bottles of wine marked at well over $100, and many, many in the $50-and-up range. Who is it for? Guests of the super-pricey hotels for whom this clipping is still not as bad as the one provided by the hotel itself? Can’t imagine.
I circled the joint, my coat closed, my backpack secure on my back, hands jammed in my pockets, never so much as handling any of the merch., and everywhere I turned, there was little Big Sister, just coincidentally passing the other way.
Finally, finding nothing whose taste, size, and price-point intersected, I headed out. At the door, the larger security operative gave me a last, full-frontal blast of stink-eye, as I strode by him, feeling like the doomed leader of the Resistance, about to be vaporized as soon as I hit the airlock.
I’m really not sure what this thing is, or means to be. It’s absolutely gigantic, and expensive looking, but it’s not a Whole Foods, or even quite a Target. It’s not cheap, but its product is not really upmarket either. Maybe the theatre district crowds will stream in. But I would have thought they would either go into a bar/restaurant to sit and socialize, or back home. Of course, no one ever got rich asking for my business assessment.
"Strange how potent cheap music is."