12.11.25

Dear Sophia,

Mercadona is king. There is no other store that could touch the hem of its magisterial garment. Hopefully with this comprehensive review of every Supermarket I know about in Orihuela, Alicante, ES, you will be able to see why. To understand my scale, I am using a four-quadrant Cartesian plane, where the x-axis has an upper boundary labeled “charm” and a lower boundary of “terror.” This dimension describes not the products sold but the vibe, the presentation, the experience of the store while you are in it. It is the store itself. Meanwhile the y-axis is a spectrum starting at the bottom with “wholesale” and ending at the top with “niche.” This is a measure of the store’s products, their selection, the quality of that selection, and the diversity of their selection. Let’s start with a few American examples to calibrate where we are on the (charm, niche) graph.

Something like Santa Cruz Market on Montecito and Castillo, or many of the Santa Barbara corner stores, would score high on the charm axis for their neighborhood vibe and friendly service. But they lack wholesale availability and offer limited selections, being much more niche. They would score something like a (8, 8) (if we are using a 10 by 10 scale) putting them in QI. Our bestie TJ lands at maximum charm and has a diverse blend of niche and accessible products: (10, 4), while true niche would be something like Santa Barbara’s Japanese Nikka Market, or any place you can buy the intestines of an animal. Those can vary in charm and terror depending on the person. Costco is the standard for wholesale, but scores heavier in terror, with a (-6, -10). Sam’s Club is the exemplary terror-wholesale player at (-10, -10). Smart and Final I’d put at (-7, -5); whole foods, interestingly, for me, lands at (0, 5) because when I walk in I can’t tell if I should be scared or excited, and 7-eleven (if we can count it as a grocery store, which, for the purpose of this exercise I do) inversely scores a (-5, 0). If I had to find a true neutral at (0,0), it might be something like Fresh and Easy, which I believe might now be defunct, or Grocery Outlet.

Now that we’re calibrated, let’s compare these to our Spanish counterparts.

Starting with Supermercados Manper––six aisles, none big enough for even a mini cart to pass through; low ceilings because it’s below an apartment complex adding to the claustrophobia; dim lighting that makes you feel like you’re lost as soon as you walk in; one worker at the cash register, one at the cramped deli in the back; boxes of merchandise you have to step over. The place is a disaster, and it should be ashamed of calling itself a grocery store. Its only advantage is its collection of plasticware and paper plates––the only nearby location you can go to if you planned a friendsgiving and spent all your time preparing the food then at the last second nearly convinced yourself that theoretically, people could eat with their hands straight out of the baking dish. Manper came to the rescue that night. High in terror, acceptable wholesale paper products. (-8, -7).

Next, there’s Dia. Overpriced and even smaller than Manper, but better-kept and more locations for accessibility. Accessible, accessible. If it weren’t a chain I’d give it a high charm score––I live above a Dia and it’s great for emergencies. Like, I walk downstairs without wiping to purchase toilet paper, then walk back upstairs and wipe type of emergency. But too expensive. And the size of a small seven-eleven, so not even a cracker aisle, not even granola bars (rarer than I’d like them to be here). Higher charm, low-level wholesale with no products that differentiate it from the norm (I respect that Dia doesn’t feel the need to be special). (6, -3).

Carrefour is a French company, and while I have nothing personally against the French, Carrefour as a supermarket feels oppressively imperialistic to my rural Spanish town. It’s a mile outside of the city, beside a highway you have to cross an overpass to get to, it’s four times larger than any other super market, and they sell washing machines. Carrefour is the closest thing this country has to a Walmart, and while that’s fine for the mega-corporations, I don’t know anyone in this town who gives a damn about Carrefour or who would willingly go in there. Everytime I’ve been there (twice now: first to research for this letter and second because I needed a down comforter) the place was completely empty. The Telepizza (think pizza hut) attached to the inside was silent, and the parking lot had tumbleweeds. It’s fluorescently lit with white tiled floors and they sell most things that a Walmart sells, plus washing machines. Comparatively, it’s Spain’s equivalent of a Costco mega store although it’s still only half the size of a normal Walmart in America. For this reason it’s reminiscent of American consumerist hyper-comfort, but it has no business being in this country, in this city. It scores the highest in wholesale and I could go heavier on the terror side, but like a dog to its vomit, I find myself wanting to hang out in there when I’m homesick. (-4, -9).

Lidl is a logistical nightmare. It’s the closest large grocery store to my home, but it has way too much of nothing I would ever need. Still no granola bars, a surplus of eggplants and cabbage but no broccoli, zucchini, or carrots. It’s got a high wholesale factor, but for shit I could never use. It boasts a decent pasta selection but despite it being a grocery store, it has a random aisle in the middle with complete nonsense: tchotchkes, toys, chocolate advents, etc, with shelves where nothing is organized, priced, or functioning. By the second half it ended up feeling more like a Marshalls or a TJMaxx when the first half was screaming Smart and Final. Nevertheless, Lidl’s true terror is its one-way-only directionality. I was reprimanded by a worker because I went down an aisle the ‘wrong way’ and then when I tried to leave the store emptyhanded, every checkout is blocked by a turnstile that the cashier has to essentially buzz you out of. So despite purchasing nothing, I still had to wait in line so I could get buzzed along with all the other consumers. I truly don’t know how to rank this one. It has such a chaotic energy in both experience and product. If I had to land somewhere it would be squarely in QIII: (-9, -5).

I am still afraid to go into SuperDumbo, which, from the outside, seems comparable to a Dia for its size and accessibility, but when I tell you the fluorescent lights from inside are enough to light the darkest alleyways from blocks away, I’m not exaggerating. Every time I walk past a SuperDumbo, it feels like the lord is calling me to heaven and I can faintly hear trumpets through my tinnitus. SuperDumbo doesn’t know what a shadow is, and no one needs to see me under those LEDs. I stay away. (-6, NA).

Finally, we arrive at Spanish grocer royalty: Mercadona. My favorite, and undoubtedly with the best selection. Honestly I don’t love this country (read my other letters) but I will always sing praises about Mercadona. A few times a week the sentence: “I love Mercadona” will come out of my mouth to whoever is listening, so let’s talk about why. Firstly, it’s clean, and I’m a freak for that. No shit on the ground, shelves organized and faced, aisles boasting intuitively categorized products, and no fluff. Mercadona has found its niche and it doesn’t purport to be something it’s not. It’s not a homegoods store, it’s not a toy store, it’s not a place where you can get printer cartridges (I see the randomest things in the randomest places). It’s a grocery store, through and through. On the back wall there’s a fresh fish market, the side wall has a deli, and in between is a beautiful, though, I’ll admit, narrow selection––however, it is my niche. It’s the only place I’ve found a fucking granola bar, and one of two places that sells a head of broccoli (the other being a produce stand the size of a bathroom near my apartment). The lights are bright but not fluorescent, the aisles are incredibly spacious, and they offer two sizes of shopping carts, a mini and a biggie and both have 360º turning radii. The workers are plentiful and eager, and, I truly hate to say this, truly, but their deli makes one of the best Paellas I’ve had in this country (I don’t know what to tell you, it’s fire, and I heat it up in the microwave behind the cash registers). Other random benefits have included: buying a reusable bag for less than an American dollar; eating the greatest grapes I’ve ever had in my life; buying pounds of kiwis because they have so many and are also amazing; alcohol selection is peak. My only qualm with Mercadona is that it’s a fifteen minute walk. On a bike, though: four minutes. High high charm, and necessarily not too niche. (10, 7.8).

On this Cartesian plane I’ve created, there are certain combinations that are undefined, like 1/0. For example the point (10,10) does not exist because you cannot have true charm with true wholesale. That would be like saying Bass Pro Shops is a family business. Sure, if the family was the Sacklers. Keep in mind, too, that true niche is dangerous. You want a solid niche score around 5, meaning it has specialty products but also familiarity. True terror and true niche at (-10, 10) is possible but perhaps unwanted. If you find yourself in true terror, true nich, you are likely slightly racist and in a supermarket that caters to a culture you don’t understand. Let’s zoom in on that point for a second and investigate when I personally found myself at (-10, 10).

I’ve certainly seen some weird stuff in supermarkets here, and always from the mom and pop produce stands I see on every corner. They’re always the easiest and cheapest places to buy a few bundles of vegetables, or even get a fruit to snack on while walking home. Here they are called Alimentaciones, and they are abundant, but not all are created equal. My favorite is Abdullah Siempre Oferta Fruta y Verdura––Abdullah always offers fruits and greens––because the name is so true. It’s fresh, the husband and wife who own it smile and like to chat, and it sits right on the river. High charm, low niche. (9, 2). My least favorite is Ali Supermercado. It is not super. It is a bummer. It is the closest one to my apartment which is the only reason I have gone in, seeing as sometimes they are open but the lights are off. I found a maggot in a pack of muffins last week. I should’ve guessed with all the flies roaming around their produce, but it was hard to see in the dark. I also think they are supplying my roommate with the intestines he uses to cook insane stews at all hours of the day (see photo). The husband and wife duo at Ali are not friendly. I try to make small talk because we are also neighbors, but they don’t seem to be interested. Their four young kids are always restocking the shelves which I think could be cool in some light––say, the local family business light––but in the darkness of Ali Supermercado it feels more sinister. High terror. I found the best spice of my life in Ali Supermercado, something I have never seen before and might never again. The product is not labeled in english and looks vaguely like sand but it makes my chicken taste like I’m feasting with Sultans of old. High niche. Ever since the maggot I haven’t gone back. I believe my roommate is keeping their deli in business, though. A true (-10, 10).

True charm, true niche at (10, 10) is not impossible to come by, but it is different for every person. Here, I am wary of corner stores that market themselves as a “Taste of America” or “American Supermarket.” That could be my true niche, and their size could be the perfect charm, but I’m scared to be disappointed. Or maybe I’m scared to be impressed. I have what I need, though. Mercadona is my comfort place and Carrefour is like a bad ex I keep wanting to go back to (those washing machines have a way about them). Abdullah is my guy, and for the next get-together Manper will provide the paper plates. Dia can wipe my ass and maybe soon I’ll work up the courage to enter SuperDumbo. Fuck Lidl.

Sincerely,

Luke