It' one of the last markets in town where you won't hear hypnotic music in the aisles, find fancy pyramids of oranges and apples in the produce section or hear somebody announcing a one-hour special on canned tomatoes in Aisle 20.
There is no Aisle 20 at Bill Spencer's grocery store — the number only goes up to six. The baby powder is located next to the garlic powder, the watermelons are kept in a cooler and the meat specials are scrawled on a sign above the counter by Bill himself, who also handles all of the cutting.
Bill also selects his own produce each morning, he helps stock the shelves and he knows the birthdays and favorite foods of all of his employees. They're his grandkids.
Life seems a little slower at Salt Lake City's 8th Avenue Market, and that's how Bill, at age 81, intends to keep it.
"Some days, I feel like a bartender because people tell me all of their problems," he says, "but I wouldn't change a thing. I like knowing my customers by name, and I imagine that most of them like knowing mine."
Eager to share a few stories about growing up in the grocery business, Bill joined me for a Free Lunch of deli sandwiches and lemonade at the market his father, Bud Spencer, took over in the Avenues in 1922. The store is now one of only a few independent neighborhood markets left in the city, but Bill says he isn't going anywhere. He's hanging on.
"I wouldn't dream of retiring," he says, pulling up a vegetable crate to use as a table in the store's back room. "I went to college to be an engineer, but it wasn't for me. Running a grocery store — that's the life."
Surprisingly, Bill's biggest competitor isn't the Smith's store down the street. He points toward the upper Avenues. "My competition is the people around here who travel so much. Everybody eats out all the time. Nobody stays home anymore."
When Bill was growing up, that certainly wasn't the case. During the Depression, he helped bag potatoes at the store, and he often saw his father give groceries to people who couldn't afford them.
"We always had food on our table so he wanted to help others," he says. "People remembered that and they kept coming back."
Today, those customers' children and grandchildren now shop at Bill's place, and he lets them run a grocery tab instead of paying each time they visit. His customers include everyone from bank presidents to hospital janitors, along with an occasional visit from a tall, athletic guy who lives up the street.
"If he's cooking, Karl (Malone) usually drops in every couple of months for some beautiful tenderloin," says Bill, "but I haven't seen him for a while. That means he must not be doing much cooking. He must be tired of all those suckers who drop by his house to eat for free."
Bill remembers when neighborhoods in the Avenues had a small-town feel and the foothills were full of scrub oak and deer instead of million-dollar homes. "When I was raising my daughters, there were 30 kids, just on this block," he says. "Now there's only one child, and he's my great-grandkid. All of those big, beautiful homes have one or two people in them. Kids used to come in here all the time for candy. Now you don't see any."
But you will find customers like LaRue Sloan, who has been browsing the aisles at Bill's since 1950. "Will you help me pick out a watermelon?" she asks him after he's finished his sandwich.
"You bet," says Bill, and he's off to the cooler to thump every melon and select just the right one.
Have a story? Let's hear it over lunch. E-mail your name, phone number and what's on your mind to freelunch@desnews.com or send a fax to 801-466-2851. You can also write me at the Deseret News, P.O. Box 1257, Salt Lake City, UT 84110.