For years, Trader Joe’s was a place—like the Metropolitan Museum of Art—that St. Louisans could only visit on vacation. Touring San Francisco or Portland, we’d have sooner given up a day on the coast than failed to stock up at the grocery store that casts a spell.
When Trader Joe’s red awnings first went up some seven months ago in preparation for local openings in Brentwood and Chesterfield, the buzz went coast to coast. Long-distance friends, already blessed with their own Trader Joe’s, e-mailed their congratulations. At the office, at the gym, at the hair salon, “Have you heard about Trader Joe’s?” was swiftly upgraded to, “Oh gosh, that is so funny—I have been talking about Trader Joe’s all day.”
An unsanctioned ribbon-cutting took place in the parking lot, where devotees celebrated in their cars with mimosas. Casual gatherings across the city served a uniform menu of the store’s famous $2.99 Charles Shaw wines (better known as “Two-Buck Chuck”) with vegetarian appetizers from the freezer section.
The store is cherished by health nuts, gourmands and bargain seekers, but nearly everyone seems eager to get in on this cliquey party. So what is it that people like so much about Trader Joe’s?
“Prices, selection, quality, value, everything,” says Todd, who wants his last name withheld and drives to the Brentwood location from Carbondale.
“I just like …” begins Mary Harnetiaux, then her voice goes dreamy. “Everything.”
For a less fervent explanation, one has to turn away from the loyal customer and go straight to the source. Throughout its Fearless Flyer newsletter—and on colorful in-store paintings reminiscent of high-school murals—the shop spells out its appeal: Cut out the middleman and buy direct, thereby offering high quality at low prices.
This strategy makes for an atypical assortment of goods. Although there is a tiny selection of everything (dog food, sushi, lavender soap), an assortment of nuts and dried fruit comprises half an aisle. A large frozen-food section is categorized into recognizable factions such as breakfast, appetizers and seafood, but Mexican, Asian and Italian get their own hand-lettered cards.
But it is the frozen desserts that best exemplify the wonder of Trader Joe’s. Alongside beloved Ben & Jerry’s is an inexpensive store brand of gelato and—wonder of wonders—ice cream cups made of hollow lemons, coconuts and oranges. If not for Trader Joe’s, a tropical island (or a lot of Martha Stewart ingenuity) would be the nearest supplier.
Unlike ordinary grocery stores, where the environment is often harried, or high-end specialty shops, where the mood can feel haughty, customers at Trader Joe’s push their carts in happy oblivion. Couples stand close while checking label ingredients, as if on a romantic date. Children don’t whine and babies don’t cry (well, not nearly as much).
Vivienne Wolf mentions that staff members are particularly friendly. When asked a question, “They don’t say, ‘It’s over there,’” she notes, “they say, ‘Follow me.’”
On one recent visit, a staff member dashed to the bakery section because a customer couldn’t find what she needed. Within moments, he told her when it would be restocked (the next morning) and offered to set it aside.
On another visit, a different staff member stood behind a counter of sample cups, recipes and chickpea cans. “It’s like a $2 meal, you know?” she hawked. “We’re calling it Tuscan tuna salad.” Later, at the checkout lanes (luxuriously stocked with tester bottles of hand lotion), a checker noticed the tuna salad recipe in a customer’s hand and offered, “That’s really good, but it’s better with fewer chickpeas.”
Trader Joe’s devotees are as eager to spread the word as they are chagrined by the results of their proselytizing. “I hate this,” says Harnetiaux, tipping her chin at the chaos of the Brentwood parking lot. “It’s so crowded, and the store is packed.”
