I see Marcel wandering about, swathed in his great coat and many scarves, totally taken with the amazing choices and total weirdness of the American supermarket. He is smiling, maybe even a bit jolly., not nonplused but rather interested. He is sniffing the coffee, and wondering why the tomatoes have no scent whatsoever. Is he processing an involuntary memory of Francoise's kitchen? Ah, the fragrant odors and the bustle.
The bustle at Trader Joe's is considerable. Would Proust drink "two-buck Chuck?" Who knows?
The other Odette