The outside world regards Whole Foods, quite simply, as a swankier version of the upscale supermarket, a kind of shinier Wild Oats, which was a healthier Vons, Smith's or Albertsons before it. To Whole Foods loyalists, however, the chain—which has ballooned to 187 locations in the U.S., U.K. and Canada since its modest beginnings in 1980—is so much more. They describe a visit to Whole Foods as an "experience," not a task, and term the accumulation of those stopovers as a "lifestyle" rather than the required gathering of foodstuff to prevent starvation. "It's a culture," explains Jim Begley, a Las Vegan who experiences the Summerlin location each Sunday afternoon. "That's what they're cultivating at Whole Foods."
Weird? Definitely. An introductory stroll through Whole Foods feels like a journey to a foreign land, where clerks provide unsolicited cooking advice (and grill your veggies while you browse), the staff responds to every comment card left on an up-front bulletin board ("We'd love it if you stocked cotswold cheese"; "We often do, it's one of our favorites too!") and a multitude of signs attempt to educate (some might say scare) shoppers about the dangers of pesticides, herbicides, fertilizers, sulfates, stimulants, growth hormones and animal antibiotics.
But even as I mock the giant lettering that indoctrinates dairy shoppers ("We satisfy and delight our customers"; "We care about our communities and our environment"), I can't help marveling at the contents of the nearby meat counter—a 60-foot expanse brimming with a dozen-plus varieties of homemade sausage and vast mounds of ground meats, not only beef and turkey, but also ground chicken, veal, lamb and buffalo.
I chuckle at Whole Foods' flower propaganda, which professes that each floral color represents an opportunity to "enhance an aspect of your personality," but can't help snagging a bright bouquet of tulips for my wife (lavender, for romance and imagination, if you were wondering).
And though I scoff at placards throughout the store footed with tiny "this sign is printed on recycled paper" notations, I realize I want in—in on the nonconventional produce, beef with "total traceability from ranch to table" and gluten-free snacks, even though I haven't a clue what a gluten might be. I want in on the cult of Whole Foods, if only they'll have a sinner like me, who still buys nonorganic lettuce, eats tuna from the can and (shudder) drives through for a fast-food burger now and again.
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Stephanie Vogel didn't need my kind of impulsive revelation to bring her into the fold. Her sister, a regular at the Malibu, California, Whole Foods, got her hooked, so much so that Vogel began making "drive-bys" (her words) of the Summerlin construction site in the months leading up to that store's September 2003 opening, envisioning the day she'd be buying baked goods, coffee and, best of all, fish there. "They'll peel the shrimp for you while you shop," she says excitedly. "They'll let you smell the fish and touch it, even see the eyeball, which is the best way to tell if it's fresh."
Vogel isn't exclusive to Whole Foods, stopping at Trader Joe's and—don't tell anyone—Albertsons for a few less nutritious snacks like Doritos (her husband needs them, she insists). But Whole Foods is where she's happiest and where she feels empowered. "Shopping at Whole Foods makes you want to be a better person," she declares. "It makes you want to be smarter environmentally, take better care of your body, be nicer to people. It sounds totally cornball, but I really think it's true."
At the very least, Whole Foods takes some of the chaos out of the weekend shopping spree. How bad can it really be when wine and cheese tastings await you near one back corner? As I sip my pungent cup of Pinotage I swear I detect ... faint drumming sounds? Moments later, four South African dancers—one beating a djembe with his hands—parade by. My baby daughter claps and giggles, but she's the only patron the least bit fazed by the sudden intrusion, as if exotic performers were no more out of place than the grind-your-own cashew-butter machine.
Drew Strozza, who frequented California Whole Foods before moving to town seven years ago, doesn't seem entirely comfortable embracing what he calls "the craze." "People there can be kind of psycho," he razzes. Moments later, though, raving about the produce and the homeopathic health products, he sounds like the congregation's lead disciple: "It's a lifesaver. Once you shop there, and you have a good experience, you're hooked. And once you're hooked, why ever go anywhere else again?"
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Of course, there's an obvious answer to that question, the reason the chain is referred to—even by many devotees—as "Whole Paycheck." "It's definitely for the upper-class," Begley says. "You're not gonna find a Whole Foods on East Tropicana."
I learn this my first time through the check-out line, when two organic rib-eye steaks and a small pouch of organic green beans set me back more than $40. No joke. And I didn't even opt for the top-of-the-line "prime" rib-eyes, drawing a puzzling line in the sand between $18.99 and $22.99 per pound.
Later that night I consider whether my $40 meal is so fabulous as to swear me off the $8-$10 rib-eyes I typically pick up at Smith's, two of which could have paired with a bundle of nonorganic green beans for under $20. Everything tastes good enough, and I feel somewhat invigorated eating a cow I know has been cultivated not only with great care for its eventual ingester but also "humanely raised" itself, according to Whole Foods literature. But in the end, my extravagant purchase results in a stressful evening, as I sweat over grilling times, fearing I might overcook my precious, gold-priced meat slabs.
Therese Fenton first walked into a Whole Foods to pick up organic baby food, and her family still visits the store on occasion, sticking principally to the ready-to-eat food area: salads, sushi and the like. Still, Fenton has managed to resist the urge to give herself over to the Whole Foods lifestyle. "Price is a big issue there," she says. "They have organic-certified stuff, really high-grade meats and fish, but even their regular milk price is the highest I've seen around town. They have a roasted chicken for, like, $15 when you can go to one of the other stores and pay $5 or $6. When you have kids and you're on a budget, it's a huge difference. Not that you don't want to eat healthy food, but you have to put everything into perspective."
Whole Foods regular Tisha Overman tries to ease my mind about the costs. "I used to purchase a pound of ground beef for two people, but now I find that I only need half a pound at Whole Foods," she says. "Without all the fat and everything else in commercial beef, it doesn't cook down. By buying half as much I'm finding it equates to the same dollar figure."
She knows more than most about the dangers of beef hormones and antibiotics, having grown up on a family farm in Tennessee. "We knew what we were eating growing up, and that was important to us," says Overman. "Now, when we have the choice between organic and not—meat or produce—we always choose organic." Overman would shake free of Vons completely if not for one addiction she just can't quit. So once a week, she can be spotted slipping out of a traditional grocery store, a case of Diet Coke hidden in a green Whole Foods bag.
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Ah, yes, the bag—surest mark of the serious Whole Foods enthusiast. Hang around the parking lot and you'll spot the diehards, clutching cloth carriers, determined to save the Earth one unused plastic bag at a time.
Those not inclined to carry their own satchels into Whole Foods can bring their items home in the standard plastic, but I must say, I feel mighty guilty doing it. The more I think about it, in fact, the more I wonder if guilt could be the secret to the entire Whole Foods success story. Enter once, and you'll surely exit questioning if death is imminent, whether every Omega 3-lacking ingredient you've ever put into your body will catch up with you the moment you re-enter the real world.
The very name, "Whole Foods," suggests that everywhere else we're getting inferior quality, some sort of "partial foods" composed of mashed-up bits of who-knows-what. So we return for tasty, pricey but hardly transcendent provisions, because Whole Foods has convinced us they can keep us whole, where competitors might leave us in pieces. I'm inclined to believe it, and I'm still in the nascent stages of Whole Foods fanaticism. As I consider committing fully, I can't help wondering if every time I buy groceries anywhere else, I'm doing some sort of injustice to myself, my wife or, most importantly, our developing daughter. I order swordfish out, and question whether Whole Foods' ahi poke salad would have been more flavorful. And as I unwrap the plain white paper from my Smith's lamb chops, I'm thinking how much more wholesome the brown wrapping from Whole Foods looks. What's happening to me?
For all her adoration, Vogel concedes to a possible Whole Foods placebo affect. "I think we know that what we're buying is healthier," she says cautiously. "But I think there's also something psychologically, mentally, that goes into it ... ‘I got this at Whole Foods, so it must be better for me.' Even if you buy commercial meat, you feel better about buying it at Whole Foods."
I spent most of today dreaming about buffalo burgers, and I spot Whole Foods on my way home from work. But I'm short on time, and I've only got $10 in my wallet, so it's looking like Taco Bell for me tonight. Think if I try ordering my Burrito Supreme with organic, New Zealand-raised, grass-and-grain-fed buffalo, I can wipe this blemish from my application?