“Ya comiste?”

“Ya comiste?”

That was her hello.

Before “how was school?” Before a hug. Before anything.

I would walk in, backpack still on, shoes dusty from playing outside, and my grandmother would already be asking.

I thought she was just worried about food. I would say “si, ya comi” just to go back and play. But she was already in the kitchen, warming something up anyway.

She always had something. Soup she held since morning. Rice she made extra “just in case.” Bread she saved because she knew I’d be back.

That generation didn’t say “I love you” ten times a day. They showed it. On a plate. With a second serving you didn’t ask for.

It took me years to understand “ya comiste” was never about food.

It meant “I missed you.”

It meant “I saved you a place.”

It meant “If you are fed, I can rest.”

It’s more universal than “I love you.” Because “I love you” is words. “Ya comiste” is nourishment. It’s care. It’s home.

That’s my philosophy. That’s my mantra at the store.

That’s why we keep prices low. That’s why our sodas are cheaper than any big chain in town. That’s why a small local store can compete with corporations.

Because to us, this store is simply us asking the whole neighborhood, “ya comiste?”

Can the kid after school get his favorite snack?

Can the college kid have something for dinner other than ramen?

Can someone who misses their country find a taste of home?

We do it with the same love as a grandparent who just needs to make sure you ate.

I would give anything to walk through that door one more time and hear her ask me again.

Recently we had to cancel a pop up…we failed you, we failed at our biggest goal, we failed at our “ya comiste?”…and we are very sorry, I assure you it will never happen again, come rain or snow if we say we’ll be there, we’ll be there…this means more to us than I could ever explain…

Kramer’s Market

No hashtags just hugs