Under Grumpa's Hat

There are few places where a perfectly respectable adult can lose all sense of dignity faster than Costco. You walk through those giant doors with a list in your hand, a credit card in your wallet and the sincere intention of buying only what you need. Ten minutes later, you are pushing a cart containing 48 rolls of toilet paper, enough laundry detergent to clean a small hotel and something called a “variety pack” that you cannot explain to your spouse. Then you see it. The little sample table. Suddenly, the shopping trip has become a competitive sport.

The Costco sample table operates under an unspoken social contract. Nobody has signed it, nobody has read it, and yet we all know the rules. You approach politely, take one sample and keep moving. That is the theory, anyway. In reality, the moment a person in a Costco vest places a tray of teriyaki chicken on the table, something happens to the human brain. Grown adults who have mortgages, grandchildren and possibly grandchildren of their own suddenly start circling the display like vultures waiting for something to die. We pretend we are just passing by, even though we have made three complete laps of the same aisle and could now qualify for a Costco driver’s licence.

The eye contact is particularly impressive. Nobody wants to admit they are waiting for free food. We stare at the product being sampled, the floor, the ceiling, the nutritional information on a box of crackers halfway across the aisle. Anything but the person handing out the samples. Then, the instant another tray appears, everybody moves forward with the subtle grace of penguins fighting over the last fish. Someone reaches over your shoulder. Another person cuts in front of you with the innocent expression of someone who believes they were personally invited. A cart blocks the entire aisle and its owner has apparently gone to live somewhere else.

And then there is the person who takes two.

We all know this person because, occasionally, that person is us. They take the sample, eat it, look around, then take another one with the casual confidence of someone who believes the Costco employee has mistaken them for a food critic. Sometimes they even grab one for their spouse. “Sharon will like this.” Of course she will. Sharon is standing twenty feet away buying coffee and has no idea you have appointed yourself her culinary representative.

The real problem begins when the sample is actually good. Now you have a decision to make. Do you buy it? You have just consumed approximately fourteen cents’ worth of food, but somehow you are now considering spending $24.99 on a package large enough to feed your entire neighbourhood. Costco has not sold you chicken. Costco has sold you an idea. And apparently the idea is that if something tastes good while standing beside a pallet of paper towels, it deserves a place in your freezer.

This little ritual is funny because it exposes something about us. We like to think we are people of strong principles, but apparently our principles become somewhat flexible when there is a toothpick involved. We would never describe ourselves as greedy, yet put three free meatballs on a tray and watch how quickly the moral compass starts spinning like a weather vane in a hurricane. Nobody is becoming a bad person over a sample of sausage, but we do get a little ridiculous.

Maybe that is why the Costco sample table is such a great little lesson in life. Character is not always tested during the big moments when everyone is watching. Sometimes it is tested when nobody would blame you for taking one more. Most of us will never have to make a decision that changes the world, but we get hundreds of tiny opportunities every day to decide whether enough really is enough.

So take the sample. Enjoy it. Say thank you. If you like it, buy the damn chicken. And if you happen to see somebody take two, try not to judge too harshly. There are bigger crimes in the world than eating an extra meatball while pretending you are comparing prices.

Besides, after all those laps, the strategic eye contact avoidance and the brief collapse of your moral standards over a toothpick of teriyaki chicken, you might as well stop for a Costco hot dog before we leave.