Sunday we went to the European (aka Russian) Market in Hollywood. As the cashier started putting our few items in a plastic bag I said, “I have a bag,” and produced the small green bag with handles I always take to the store for small purchases.
“It’s OK,” she said, like a parent talking to a child who has just knocked over his glass of milk. Then she dutifully, begrudgingly, disapprovingly placed our groats and cold beet soup into our bag.
