Excuse me, do you have pimientos?, I ask a young female staffer. What?
Pimientos?, I say again. What?
Pimientos. I didn't give the phoenetic pronunciation.
I can't understand you. Ah.
Oh, oh, . . that's fine, ok, I'll ask someone else.
She rushs off through a back-of-the-house open door between milk and cheese. There was a whiff of urgency from her. I think she wanted some relief.
So I look and walk around searching for pimientos. I look near the pickles and pepperincini again. I look in the international section again. I look. I walk. I seek. I hope I'll find. Maybe near the olives, that's the ticket. Ah there's another customer service representative who stands out.
Hey bud. Do you carry pimientos?
What? Uh oh.
Pimientos. Yeah, they,re red, in a small round jar, the lid's yellow. I stop.
Once I repeat the word pimiento, it's kinda tricky to say, I see he's processing, visualizing, "Where've I seen that?", or thinking, "What did he say?". He's young. He's long of arm and leg, unkept black hair over forehead and ears, dressed in black jeans and tee and shoes, distinguished as a Food City droogie by the red apron draping about his torso's ncek with an insouciance only a maturing teen boy displays. I watch. I wait. He continues his work.
Dairy . . . in the cheese section.
OK, progress. We have target and location; but in the dairy section, hmmmm, with the cheese, as I walk to the opposite ends and sides of the store. Maybe they're fresh pimientos, have to be kept cold. What do I know. I go. I look. I got bupkus now. I just want pimientos so Angela can put 'em in her corn salad.
There's a lot of domestic cheeses. There's pimiento cheese in quarter pound tubs.
Folks like pimiento cheese.
No pimientos though.
I can't make this stuff up.