September 4, 2002

HEY, WE all like to feel snobby about something or other now and again, and there's no better way to flex one's superiority than to join a club. Yesterday me and Crawdad became proud members of an exclusive and official club. We became Costco Wholesale Gold Star Members, and today, to flaunt that fact, I'm taking my meals at the Costco cafeteria, or "food court," as they call it, because it sounds more regal that way. I got all showered and shaved and dressed up for the occasion, and I says to Crawdad, I says, "If anyone calls for me, dear, I'll be down at the club."

She was reading. She said, "Huh?"

"The club. The court. Costco," I said. "We're members. Remember?"

She'd just given me my card earlier this morning. I'd never been to Costco. She'd been shopping there yesterday. First time. "You're going shopping?" she said, not looking up from the book.

I never call Crawdad dear. "Not shopping – eating," I said. "I'm taking my meals. Dear."

"All of them?"

I looked at the clock. "No. Just lunch and dinner."

Crawdad, as you know, is a student of psychology these days, and as such she is always reading books on the subject of psychology and psychological disorders. She looked up at me, marking her spot with her finger, and then she looked back down at what she was reading. Then she looked at me again and then looked back down and nodded vigorously, as if finally understanding something.

"What are you reading?" I said.

"Nothing."

I went down to the club.

If you've been paying attention at all, you know I've been flirting with the idea of writing up the Costco cafeteria for years, ever since I heard they had good, cheap hot dogs. I even tried to go there once recently, but I got lost South of Market and wound up somewhere else. Anyway, I didn't know you had to be a member just to eat there, but now that I know, and now that I'm a member, I kind of like the idea.

Guy standing at the entrance to the place asks to see my card, and I have a card, so I show it to him. "Keep up the good work," I say, walking in. "You're doing a great job."

The atmosphere is very much like a grocery store, only even bigger. Now I know why they call it a warehouse. It's a warehouse. Piled floor to ceiling with boxes of things. But I'm not shopping for things. I'm here to mingle with my fellow club members over hot dogs, and there it is: the food "court." It's a bunch of plastic tables with umbrellas and people and food and shopping carts parked all over the place.

Slice of pizza goes for $1.99 whether it's cheese or pepperoni or a little bit of everything. You can also get ice cream and sundaes and these nasty-looking "chicken bake" things ($2.69). Hot dogs and Polish dogs go for $1.50, and that includes a 20-ounce soda with one free refill ... so correct me if I'm wrong, but that's something like 35, 40 ounces of sody-pop, all told. In fact, I was going to get two dogs, but then I didn't know what I'd do with all those ounces, so I got a dog – a Polish one – and a slice. A pepperoni one.

It's almost like a concession stand at a baseball game, more so than a private supper club, oddly enough. No table service. You have to stand in line and wait your turn, and then they pretty much throw your food at you. You get your own drink, and you grind your own onions onto your hot dog at the ketchup-and-mustard station.

Then you go sit down with your fellow members and hobnob about philosophy and sports, theoretically, except that I couldn't get anyone to engage. The 700-pound couple sitting next to me didn't speak English, or didn't seem to speak English. At least I couldn't understand a word they were saying. To each other. And the guy across from me was talking on his cell phone the whole time. I did overhear some people next table over talking about "deals." I wished I was sitting with them, because I thought the Polish dog was a pretty good deal, and I'd have said so.

The pizza was a bust. It was one of those extra fat, extra fluffy slices with a real institutional taste to it. But the dogs are damn good. Hebrew National, all beef, quarter-pounder. Can't beat that, with a drink and a refill, for a buck-fifty. In fact, I figured it out, and assuming that the same sort of dog-drink combo would run you, say, five bucks (at least) at Pac Bell Park, all you have to do is eat at Costco 12.87 times a year instead of going to 12.87 baseball games, and right there your $45 membership has paid for itself.

Costco Warehouse Food Court. 450 10th St. (at Harrison), S.F. (415) 626-4832. Mon.-Fri., 11 a.m.-8:30 p.m.; Sat., 9:30 a.m.-6 p.m.; Sun., 10 a.m.-6 p.m. No alcohol. Takeout available. American Express. Wheelchair accessible.