Memories of the Turner Sub Shop sister store

When I started life at SCAD in the Fall of 2005 I lived in the dorms like everyone else. As a requirement of living in the dorms, you had to have a meal plan. These meal plans came with "dining dollars."

What are dining dollars, you might ask. Well, here's SCAD's definition.

Dining Dollars are a declining balance account included in the meal plan as a convenient way for students to purchase snacks or grocery items or treat a friend to lunch at SCAD.

I'll address the second part of that quote first. Nobody wants to treat their friends to lunch at SCAD. Nobody wants to treat themselves to lunch at SCAD. The food in the cafeterias is absolute Sodexho garbage. You may be thinking, "hey, maybe the food quality has gone up since when you moved out of the dorms two years ago." It hasn't. Along with other Student Media leaders, I was "treated" to free breakfast at Cafe SCAD a couple of weeks ago in return for meeting with Dr. Phil Alletto, VP of Student Services at SCAD. The food was no different. After two years of complaint-filing from most students (I assume), there still wasn't any cold soy milk. The scrambled "eggs" gave me an instant stomach ache.

But this is about convenience stores, right? So, students are forced to convert their USD into "dining dollars" when they're forced to purchase their meal plan. I only have one visual example of what you can buy with those dining dollars.



That's right, $4.69 for a single box of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. This same product goes for just over a dollar at the local Kroger. Not only that, this product is useless to residents of the dorms. There isn't a single stove within the entire Turner/Weston/Dyson/Annex dorm complex surrounding this convenience store. There is nowhere for customers of this store to cook this box of macaroni. This image sums up my entire review of the Turner convenience store. I have no more to say.

Chu's

My girlfriend and I were eating at Madras Chetinaad, the best Indian restaurant in Savannah. The general consensus in our relationship is that Indian food is the best in the world. As such, we overeat at this restaurant. Never fail, one of us always leaves with a stomach ache. If I had an endless supply of naan and masala sauce, I doubt I would ever stop dunking and eating it. It would be like a voluntary case of the first victim in Se7en. Yeah, gluttony guy.

A few nights ago I saw an opportunity through the window next to our booth at Madras -- Chu's Market on Eisenhower Drive. Erin and I made a pact to eat until one of us was sick (it was bound to happen anyway) so we'd have an excuse to go to Chu's. Gotta work hard for your blog, right? Long, delicious story short -- we waddled across the parking lot divider to Chu's.

Chu's was on lockdown. My girlfriend and I both went straight for the restrooms in the back. Both were locked. This is terrifying. As if walking across the parking lot wasn't hard enough, now we have to find the keys to the bathroom? We headed for the front counter, only then noticing the bulletproof shield. The entire counter was a massive, clear and impenetrable box. We asked for the keys from the cashier and heard her muffled response through the glass, "They're on the counter." All this security for nothing? Whatever, we hit the bathrooms.

These bathrooms weren't very clean. Wet floors, smelled bad, soggy toilet paper strewn about. Whatever, we were just glad it was over.

The store offered some interesting products. The cooler had your standard sodas and beers, but way down on the bottom shelf were some "juices." The first were individual Mondo bottles -- those small plastic Kool-Aid knockoffs with the twist-off top. I hadn't seen this crap since third grade. Next to the Mondo were those little plastic cubes of colored "drink," like they serve in the cafeteria on the show Oz. Only 39 cents to drink like you're in a state penitentiary.

The "coffee corner," right next to the "candy corner" (both signified by buzzing neon signs) was easily the most unique spot in the store. The back wall behind the three coffee makers presented a giant hand-painted mural of a Mexican town, complete with una escuela, una biblioteca y un supermercado. This thing was like a fourth grade class project. Muy bien. The tie-in? There was a tiny metal cart filled with some Mexican bakery goods -- basically a bunch of greasy pound cakes wrapped in plastic. Exotic.

I awkwardly bought a pack of Fruit Stripe from the lady behind the two-inch thick glass wall. Heads up, Fruit Stripe gum still loses its flavor after an honest ten seconds. Next time I'm at Madras I'll stick with their bathroom.

Parker's Market

Simply put, Parker's Market on Drayton is a small version of The Fresh Market with a gas pump outside.

This is one of the few places I've ever known where you can buy green pistachio muffins (the greatest baked good I could never successfully create in my own kitchen). This Parker's contains a full-fledged bakery with far more elegant items than a Little Debbie Honey Bun or other such "convenient" dessert. There's a deli with meals you'd find on the menu of most bistros or coffee shops. There's an entire room devoted to beer, which is always a good thing. There are plenty of import beers alongside the usual PBR and malt liquor. They have an impressive variety of gourmet groceries, like lingonberries and organic macaroni and cheese. There's a large selection of emergency Mother's Day gift-type items and things you think are "neat" until you look at the price sticker. Their magazine rack is stocked with plenty of uncommon newsstand finds. They usually have an assortment of flowers perfect for picking up after a fight with your significant other. The cash register even dispenses the correct amount of change directly to a cup, to avoid cashier incompetency.

The downside is pretty obvious as soon as you enter: prices. A six-pack of Newcastle costs about $2.50 over retail. A plain egg salad sandwich, $4.49. That little jar of lingonberry jam is a five-dollar item. Want to not disappoint Mom? It'll cost you. And you'd better start looking for a new significant other if you're on a budget, those flower prices are jacked. What about that sought-after pistachio muffin? It ranks in at a reasonable two dollars. I'm serious.

The Parker Companies define the location on Drayton St. as an "urban gourmet," rather than their usual "convenience store." I guess what they mean by "urban" is you can pump gas at the usual ridiculous price, and by "gourmet;" you can buy nice crap inside at the same rip-off level.

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El Cheapo

In the case of the gas station across the street from my apartment in downtown Savannah, Chris Farley's SNL translation skills hold true. El Cheapo is Spanish for The Cheapo. I suppose the name is a vain attempt at putting an ethnic spin on the idea of a gas station to better sales, but somewhere along the lines of public relations the El Cheapo executives decided they should create their own form of the Spanish language to sound more catchy. Despite the title, the inside of the convenience store on the corner of Duffy and Abercorn Streets lacks any sort of Hispanic charm, or really any charm at all.

The store is a small room comprised of four aisles, a smaller back room, and the checkout counter. The various aisles offer usual gas station edibles like candy bars and potato chips. One of the aisles features a wide selection of potted meats, many of which would be hard to find even in most grocery stores. Jarred, semi-boneless pigs feet in vinegar stood out among the rest. I was surprised to note that unlike most items sitting around in El Cheapo, the pigs feet jars weren't coated in a year's worth of dust. Another aisle conveniently stocks baby toys next to condoms and automotive parts.

Each aisle leads to the rear wall of beer and liquor coolers, standard in most convenience stores. On Sundays, however, this particular shop chooses to lock the cooler doors using broom handles and two-by-fours, "no drinkin on Sunday" etched into the wood.

Somewhat hidden by cardboard stand-ups of half-naked women is the back room, the neighborhood gambling hot spot. Three arcade style electronic slot machines sit in the dark plunking their 8-bit versions of Rat Pack lounge favorites. A few neighborhood grandmas sit here on most weekday afternoons, only with the sorest expressions on their faces. The closest thing to a casino in the Victorian district.

I can admit that El Cheapo saved me when my girlfriend ran out of eggs in the middle of a recipe (and I suppose being able to trust the dairy products there is a plus). The clerks are friendly and remember your face quickly, making ID card fumbling infrequent. The logo, a crudely-rendered donkey kicking at the words "high prices," is a bit of false advertising, but what can you ask for in gas prices these days.

El Cheapo on Abercorn isn't very cheap or ethnic, but it lives up to its name as a "food mart," as long as you're into canned meat or frightening pink cookies called "Uncle Al's Stage Planks."

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