Lidl on price, totemic on culture
On Lidl's curiosities and its internationalism
There are so many European foods that are ‘region locked’ to their individual countries of origin. In the United Kingdom, you can’t get Surströmming, even though it’s a major meme food and took social media by storm. You can’t get soused herring (which I think I may have complained about before). You can’t get Griebenschmalz.
The list goes on, apart from things that occur in stores catering to the various diaspora we have here. So, there are many ‘obscure’ foods that you can go out and buy thanks to, notably, eastern European shops, or Asian shops, or the occasional Portuguese/Brazilian shop. These gastronomic delights exist for a simple, obvious reason: immigration. People who don’t know what they’re missing will not go out and seek it. But immigration brings foreign appetites home, and with that, they begin to expand what is possible in everyone’s kitchens.
It has taken me a while, but I have realised very recently that Lidl, my favourite supermarket, has been doing this by stealth. Lidl is a ‘normal’ supermarket: it is a big, powerful chain, that opens generic shops in generic places with big parking lots. Lidl is frequented by a cross-section of society, and it is known for being cheap. If you want to eat the wan British delicacies of baked beans, back bacon, and salt and vinegar crisps, you can do this at Lidl.
Dig beneath the surface, though, and Lidl is anything but ordinary. Lidl operates a ‘spin the wheel’ approach to groceries. Where other supermarkets tend to charge higher prices, in return for greater, consistent choice, Lidl tells the consumer what they should buy on what day. They do this by limiting choice and consistency in all but the very most basic items. Then, for everything else, they ‘spin the wheel’. “It’s Iberia week now, shoppers” they announce one day; the next, it’s food from the eastern Mediterranean.
“When it’s gone, it’s gone!” is their second slogan, delivered with a brutal, paternalistic glee. The middle aisle of Lidl is no exception to this rule. Metal baskets are chock full of completely random items, from kitchen storage to power saws. Will you go to Lidl for any one of these items on any given day? At your peril! But will you be tempted by the random occurrence of something you didn’t know you ‘needed’? Yes!
The problem with the ‘normie’ supermarkets is that, as demographics and taste buds expand, the shops have to spread themselves ever thinner to get more and more items in store. The ‘normie’ supermarkets are perpetuating the myth of real choice. Lidl tells its customers that they have no choice. When it’s gone, it’s gone. This is what I would call a genuinely disruptive approach. I think it is brilliant.
Things get more interesting, however. You see, Lidl seems to be frequented by an unusually broad cross-section of society. Demographics on supermarkets are very limited, but one thing I can say with data is that Lidl skews only very slightly young, and it is visited by pretty much 7-10% of almost all age groups. Unfortunately, what I want to say with data but can’t is about Lidl’s ethnic and nationality cross-section. By looking at Lidl’s selection of food, and the people that shop there, I think Lidl has an ethnically broad base. Cornwall, where I live, is very much not a diverse place. But if I want to hear spoken Polish, or Romanian, I can give it my best shot by going to Lidl.
The data on this stuff is shockingly poor, which is a shame, because it would be a fascinating insight into the dietary makeup of our nation. It might also be a valuable indicator from a health point of view: what diasporas are eating what, and how are they faring in terms of obesity, metabolic disease, etc? This could be a route to better health policy, for example. I am sure Lidl itself knows who is shopping there and what they’re buying, however, because their Lidl Plus card scheme will enable them to harvest and interrogate data about their customers. Sadly, all we have is awful, useless generalisations like “Half of UK’s ethnic minority population choose Tesco.” The genericness of ‘ethnic minority’ as a label is always suspect. It seems particularly silly when we’re thinking about food: as if there is an ‘ethnic minority’ palate! Anyone visited their local ‘ethnic minority’ restaurant recently?
Nevertheless, we can use cuisines as a very rough proxy for demography. By far and away, Poland represents the biggest immigrant group in the UK at the minute. One ‘exotic’ cluster of cuisines I am beginning to notice in Lidl is the central and eastern European cluster. The Baltic ocean beckons. Thus, I am seeing ‘Taste of Deutschland’ currywurst chips and rye bread and herring in various forms. Tinned smoked herring has made its way into the supermarket, and, unusually, seems to be here to stay. This is sublime news. Also making an appearance on the regular are packs of sauerkraut. The ingredients are cabbage and salt: this is the real deal.
Now, some of these things are decidedly German (a tiny demographic), but we must remember that the central and eastern European cuisines are linked by commonalities of climate, and the nation states are all rather recent (at least in their borders). Much of present-day Czechia has historical German place-names, and older generations will speak the language. And some other things, notably sauerkraut, are just pan central and eastern European.
Perhaps my favourite item of all, though, is this product. In English, its called Herring Fillets in Creamy Sauce with Gherkins Apple and Dill. This combination, without any research, sounds positively mental. Yet it’s actually a central European classic, wearing a poorly-translated disguise. What you’re actually looking at, dear reader, is what in Germany is called Matjes Hausfrauenart, ‘Herring Housewife-Style’. Make your own conclusions as to the gender politics of that. Anyway, the bad translation takes us off the scent that this item is a genuine piece of culinary repertoire, not some horrible mistake in the fish factory.
There is a Polish analogue to this, but they tend to be sold as śledź w sosie śmietanowym (herring in cream sauce). Other sauces are available (see below). A Polish friend of mine has confirmed that herring is indeed very popular in that land, with numerous variations — particularly among older generations. Apparently it goes well with vodka, which makes complete sense given the sharp sweetness of neat vodka and the intense oiliness of the fish. I digress. About herring. Yet again.
I suspect it is things like this — with untranslatable names — which caused Mitchell and Webb to make their joke about ‘octopus pieces in glitter’ in their sketch lampooning ‘Diddldidi’ (Lidl’s Doppelgänger). While there is something slightly funny about these excessively long, suspiciously capacious food items, we shouldn’t demean these things. We should buy them and try them.
The irony is that Waitrose gets to have the high-class, metropolitan liberal élite vibes to it, and it strenuously works to keep those vibes a-vibing. And yet the true class belongs to Lidl, which brings the world to our tables while seeming completely ‘normal’ (esse quam videre) and even with a certain warehouse chic.
Long live Lidl, the tombola-wheel of cuisines.
My local Lidl feels like a meeting of the United Nations.
Applies to Aldi too!