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Berkeley has done a good job so far in fighting uncontrolled urban sprawl and the auto-dominated lifestyle it requires. Berkeleyans have bravely banned big-box chain retail stores and the unthinkable regional shipping center, and we’ve reveled in our local, non-national-chain boutiques, restaurants and gourmet supermarkets. But now we are facing the stark consequences of our chosen lifestyle in an unexpected place—uncontrolled sprawl in the local veggie bins.  

Ever since Grace Slick sang it in the ‘60s, the unofficial Berkeley motto has certainly been “feed your head.” The Marijuana Munchies of the ‘60s and ‘70s spawned the Gourmet Ghetto of the ‘80s, and by the ‘90s eating well—VERY well—had become part of our civil religion. Other parts of California might have had tree huggers; Berkeley produced a city full of potato huggers, and fungus fondlers, and pear pamperers. Pro-choice was extended to include “fabulous produce selection,” where anything fewer than a dozen varieties of those preferably-organic potatoes, fungi or pears would simply no longer do. In this century, while the country was obsessing over Osama Bin Laden, we were also rejoicing with “Hosanna-bins laden!”  

Such abundant choice, however, has consequences—all the extra room required by multiple bins per produce species. Even at now- precious price levels, fruit and veggie bins yield a lot lower sales per square foot than do packaged foods on multi-level shelving, meaning traditional supermarkets can’t afford the Berkeleyan level of variety. So once the Berkeley Bowl developer did the math on a new site, the inevitable consequence was the proposed up-cloning of the current store from mere-supermarket scale to what would surely be the veritable Sam’s Club of greengrocers. And that wasn’t just greed—it was no more than their customers have been demanding of them.  

Not that such a larger market would necessarily be bad for the neighborhood where it’s built. The similar expansion of Monterey Market on Hopkins in the ‘80s did increase local traffic and parking hassles; but the extra shoppers have also supported the nearby row of diverse and interesting specialty shops that couldn’t survive otherwise. What west Berkeley businesses might do better from a greater concentration of shoppers in the Bowl’s new neighborhood? And what interesting new ones might be encouraged?  

The unexpected question to ask about the new Berkeley Bowl is: Are we willing to pay the price if the project is reduced to a smaller neighborhood scale? Not just the price in fewer provided parking spaces, which would actually increase parking pressure on the neighborhood. I’m talking about the price in—gasp—fewer choices in the veggie bins. It’s a classic tradeoff: To gain a half-sized 27,000-foot store, would we be willing to live with half as many choices? Only six bins of varietal organic potatoes instead of 12? Something fewer than every form of edible fungus known to humankind? A mere dozen alternatives for those perfect heirloom tomatoes in season?  

Or should we allow the larger footprint—if not “big box” then certainly “big bins.” Surely we wouldn’t put up with such edible excess in the center of town—but perhaps it would be OK if we pushed it out to an edge close to the freeway, like we did with that strange incursion of suburbia we allowed on Fourth Street. Perhaps we could even live with the inner contradiction required: Always driving to a more-distant store across town, which almost all of us would do, to demonstrate our support for organic produce that’s better for the environment.  

Let’s just be clear that this choice is about lifestyle, not necessity, and about the conflict between actual lifestyle and professed values. In my neighborhood, as an alternative example, the Berkeley Natural Grocery on Gilman Street provides a great selection of 100 percent organic produce and other foods in a modest space, and serves hundreds of local walk-in and bike-in customers without creating parking problems. Perhaps our total needs would be better served by cloning that model in other neighborhoods—starting with walker-friendly locations in the car-dominated hills, of course—rather than erecting a Cabbage Cathedral as our greatest cultural achievement in the new century.  

Alan Tobey, a retired technologist, has been eating very well in Berkeley since 1970. ›