My first trip to Aldi

I remember feeling idle curiosity when Aldi, the German cut-rate grocery chain, began opening Houston metroplex stores twelve years ago.

Not enough to drive the distances required to check one out, though. My special trips have always been reserved for the likes of Central Market or HMart.

Until last month, anyway, when I saw a Twitter post from John Arnold, the Houston billionaire who made his fortune trading in energy futures at his hedge fund and now focuses on philanthropy at his family foundation.

"My Kroger's has roughly 170 options for pasta sauce. 210 sparkling water SKUs," Arnold began, referring to Stock Keeping Units, the individual numbers assigned to inventory items. "40 syrups. 100 sizes & brands of bottled water. For what? It's choice overload and the logistics of all this raises prices."

"Aldi is going to crush it in the US,"Arnold asserted. "The concept of smaller footprint, limited selection, simpler display, and mostly private label to achieve a lower price point is spot on.The endless rows and selection used to amaze the Soviets. But it's been taken too far, creating choice paralysis, wasting time, and driving up costs. Just wish Aldi was publicly traded."

Well. Now I had to see for myself. Off I set for the closest Aldi, the store four miles away on Old Spanish Trail between U of H and the Med Center. Immediately I realized I was woefully unprepared: I didn't have a quarter with which to unlock a shopping cart, part of the Aldi ritual.

What to do? I ventured inside and sheepishly stood in line so I could ask a cashier to change a bill. He looked at me pityingly and handed me back my paper money, along with a quarter coin. Was I only imagining that he rolled his eyes?

Okay then. Propelling my ill-gotten cart, I began prowling the aisles, of which there were only a handful. I eyeballed some baked goods from labels unknown to me, inspected fresh fruits, including some handsome organic berries, and squeezed the ripe avocados. Cruising the long bread aisle, I tried to find one loaf that appealed to me. I settled on some brioche sliced too thick, just because I got tired of trying to decide.

So yeah, choice paralysis hit early. I'm a bread snob, I admit it. I was reluctant to take a chance on Aldi's L'Oven Fresh brand, despite its effort at sounding Euro-chic. But just past the wine shelves, I hit a lode of chocolates and cookies and whatnot that stopped me in my tracks.

I wasn't persuaded by the ingredients lists on various dark chocolate confections, but a packet of imported Belgian butter waffle crisps scalloped with dark chocolate practically leapt into my cart. They were $1.99 and looked like the kind of thing that would have cost thrice that at Central Market. (Tasted that way, too.)

Then I bumped into my former Chronicle colleague, Joy Sewing, shopping with one of her kids. She refused to believe it was my first time in an Aldi. She's an aficionado of the chain—in fact, she's on a group chat devoted to informing each other about their latest and greatest Aldi finds.

No kidding. Aldi's seasonal churn and subtly shifting private-label brands (some with eerily dystopian names like Friendly Farms or Simply Nature) mean fans never know quite what might await them. They stay alert—Joy proudly showed me a shockingly inexpensive electric juicer she had nabbed from the higgledy-piggledy home goods and decor aisle—and some websites devote a cult-like attention to the latest quirks of inventory.

Aldi's social-media fandom has helped make it the fastest-growing grocery chain in America. This year alone, they're scheduled to open 200 U.S. stores.

My eyes widened when I got to the snacks aisle. Aldi's Savoritz-brand crackers were so cheap that I loaded up: from sesame flatbreads to round pita crisps in sea salt and garlic-chive flavors. I eyeballed the selection of Euro-style cheeses, picking out a plain goat-cheese log ($1.79!) and a small wheel of goat brie ($4.49)—both made in Canada. (They both turned out to be too enthusiastically salted, but paired with other foods, I ended up enjoying them.)

I passed on Aldi's jams and jellies, all of which listed sugar as their first ingredient. (Instant "nope".) But I fell with glee upon a package of Señor Rico's arroz con leche in adorable little 4-ounce tubs, which boasted that they were made with "real milk and cream." No preservatives or unpronounceable additives, either.

I love rice pudding—that's a whole other post—and California-made Señor Rico's proved to be the real deal, with a creamy consistency and delicate vanilla flavor. I'm hooked. Now I always want this delicious and affordable stuff in my refrigerator.

I lingered over the small ground coffee selection. Did I dare to pick Dark Roast? Or would Medium Roast be the safer bet, since I didn't know the Barissimo brand? (It was.) There were no coffee filters of the right size, though, just the basket-shaped ones. I'd have to go elsewhere.

Curious, I grabbed a huge, inexpensive can of lentil and vegetable soup made by the Deutsch-Küche Aldi German brand, and I ended up impressed. Canned soups usually bore me. This one, with its red and brown lentils and leeks, did not—especially with a finishing squirt of lemon.

The Deutsch-Küche product line was out in force with Oktoberfest coming on, and I hovered over the myriad types of frozen schnitzels and festive cakes. I wasn't tempted, but I was agog at the variety.

I bought Happy Farms milk, Goldhen eggs, and Countryside Creamery unsalted Irish butter, hoping for the best. All proved to be perfectly fine, although the brick of butter (no sticks!) was hard to cut into a convenient shape. I ended up missing my Kerrygold.

Had I felt moved to cook fish or meat, which I do less often these days, I might have been tempted by the vivid slabs of "never frozen" Atlantic salmon, or the super-serious-looking grass-fed ground beef. I eschewed the blog-famous Park Street Deli chicken salad variants after inspecting their emulsified texture and lists of ingredients. I got a huge jar of honey-roasted peanuts, but Aldi's Southern Grove nut brand turned out to be nowhere near as good as Planter's, sad to say.

Produce in general and berries in particular really are a good deal at Aldi, and I give props to the organic blueberries and blackberries I got. Some gorgeous organic strawberries, however, were unrepentantly sour despite their vivid hue. An assortment of cherry tomatoes proved excellent, either to pop as snacks or to halve and sauté in olive oil with diced shallot as a simple pasta sauce.

At checkout, I stood in a substantial line, staring at some potted olive tree saplings (I am not making this up) and slowly realizing, again, that I had come unprepared. Everyone had brought their own canvas or sturdy plastic totes. There were no plastic bags.

You push your cart all the way down the line, past the credit card reader, and turn it perpendicular to the conveyor belt so the ferociously efficient cashiers can pile your groceries into it. Then you propel the cart forward a few feet to a long counter where you stop to load your free-ranging goods into your totes. It's Aldi ritual. Everybody knew but me.

That's how I came to be standing in the Aldi parking lot in the rush hour heat, loading my purchases into the car, box by can by carton. I felt ridiculous for not having done my due diligence. I had spent a grand total of $60.86 for 22 items. I can't remember the last time I spent so little at my H-E-B or the even closer WalMart.

I realized, with a shock, that I had lingered almost two hours in the store. Driving home, it dawned on me that unlike John Arnold, I approach grocery shopping as recreation rather than task. For someone as interested in food as I am, casing a grocery store—especially one new to me— feels like a museum visit. I dawdle. I gawk. I think about stuff.

The other day, I returned to Aldi. I had a quarter in hand, and a couple of my prized H-E-B Day of the Dead totes.

I needed more Belgian Butter Waffle Crisps, not to mention a double batch of Señor Rico rice pudding cups. Having enjoyed the medium roast coffee, I felt brave enough to try the darker Midnight Roast. (Didn't work out.) I found a $1.99 packet of stovetop Spaetzle with cheese that looked mildly promising in a mac-and-cheese way. (Not bad at all for a no-brainer lunch.)

At some point, I heard a cry of "Alison!" and there was Joy Sewing again. She chortled that I had come back. "You're going to be a regular!" she crowed.

Maybe I will. Aldi's not going to replace my modest local H-E-B. But I enjoy the chain's barebones vibe, and the childhood thrill of embarking on an eccentric treasure hunt. One seasoned with the occasional jump-scare of a booby prize— like the bland, stodgy Priano brand mushroom ravioli that were the worst frozen pasta I've ever tasted.

Checking out, I noticed the olive saplings had vanished, replaced by bushy, budding mums. The season had turned. I paid $44.08 and wheeled my cart to the tote-packing counter like a pro.

Second time around, I got in and out in a blistering 35 minutes. I could have spent longer.