The Temple of Sweet Tea and Tortillas

HEB is not just a grocery store but a near-sacred institution in Texas.

I said what I said.

Now, I know folks who'll argue with me about what constitutes a true spiritual experience, but if you've ever walked into an HEB, you know that the phrase holy ground has a whole new meaning. It's not just a grocery store. It's a pilgrimage. It's where miracles happen, like a tent revival or finding the last tub of Blue Bell ice cream on the shelf when you thought it was all sold out.

It's not a store. It's an experience. You can't go into a Kroger and expect to feel like you've stepped into the Garden of Eden. Not unless Eden has fluorescent lighting and overpriced organic kale.

You will discover the sensory overload. You walk through those sliding doors and feel the breeze of cool air hit your face like you've entered the promised land. It's like the store is welcoming you home. An array of sights, smells, and sounds, like the scent of fresh tortillas and sizzling fajitas in the air, the clang of shopping carts, and the soft murmur of happy customers all blend into one perfect symphony.

They say there's a fervor with which Texans worship HEB, and I've even been accused of being a member of a cult. From the outside, I imagine it appears that way. But to be honest, I have this mystical, magical thing that I like to do when no one is watching.

It's called eating.

I've had enough bad meals and bland subsistence food in my life to know what I like, and if I'm putting anything in this gullet at my age, it had better come correct. I'll admit there are people who treat HEB like it's a religious institution. I'll admit to being one of them. And there are regulars who know the staff by name and ask about their kids like they're family. I do this, too.

I know there is a fellow named David who wears a name tag that says Michael on it. He's done that for five years now. You have to be in front of him and catch his eye to get his attention. I don't think he knows who in the hell Michael actually is. And I'm okay with that. They make him do a lot of the heavy lifting.

Maybe they're right. Perhaps it's like a cult, but with better snacks and more helpful cashiers. I know that when that cashier hands you your receipt, it's like getting communion—except instead of bread, it's a $200 grocery bill. And I'm okay with it. They are usually more lovely than the priests I've met, except for that YouTube priest who looks like Superman. He seems to be doing his job right, and I like that guy.

No, I'm not Catholic.

If they want to keep making that argument, however, HEB is the Texas version of a cult leader. They've got their own grocery store chain, their own line of products, and their own loyal followers who will fight to the death over which salsa is the best.

You don't just walk into an HEB, grab a cart, and start shopping. Oh no. First, you circle the parking lot for 10 minutes on a mad hunt for that perfect spot. Then, you make your way to the entrance, where the air conditioning hits you like a divine blessing. I done told you about this. It's just one of the rituals that elevate the experience.

Every trip includes a stop at the tortilla section. It's like they're the loaves and fishes of the store. You can't leave without them, and they can somehow feed a multitude.

They even sell tortilla blankets. I told you about that before, too. Everyone still fights to steal that blanket from me. At this very moment, it's not in my possession, and I will require force and backup to get it back.

When seasonal items are on sale—like the pumpkin spice everything in the fall—it's like finding manna from heaven. I've even seen people fight over a box of pumpkin muffins. It's a beautiful thing. It's not as beautiful to me as when the sugar skulls are in bloom. I load my piggy bank for that season.

They've got everything you need and things you didn't even know you needed. It's like they can read your mind, and if you want a six-pack of Shiner Bock with your avocados, HEB has you covered. Where else can you get fresh-caught Gulf shrimp, homemade tamales, organic groceries, and a whole aisle dedicated to nothing but salsa?

They use the acronym Here Everything's Better. I know what they're doing. I see them. I get that they are feinting away from the fact that the namesake, Howard E. Butt, had a last name that made school kids giggle. That doesn't change the fact that the produce section is the closest thing to an actual garden of Eden you'll find on this side of the Mississippi.

HEB's in-house brands are the stuff of legend. People talk about the 'HEB queso' like it's some sort of holy grail. And don't even get me started on their chips. Have you had Biscuits and Gravy potato chips? Bless your heart. No, you haven't.

The employees at HEB are like the saints of the grocery world. They smile, know what they're doing, and walk you to the item you're looking for instead of pointing vaguely and hoping you figure it out. The service is even more than that, and once you build the relationship, you might as well invite them to Sunday dinner.

Once, I bought a set of silicone egg rings. I got home, they were nowhere to be found. I took my receipt, marched back, and told the front-line manager. She provided me with a new one without even blinking. When I got home, I discovered the little one had helped me by pulling the originals out of the bag, so I had to turn around and march back.

"I brought this back," I told her, "I have two of them."

"Did you walk all the way back here to give me five dollar rings, Mr. Jones?"

"I certainly did," I replied.

"You could have just kept them," she pointed out.

"That messes up inventory, and then you have problems. If you have problems, then I have problems."

I've seen HEB employees offer to carry out groceries for an elderly lady and offer free advice on how to properly cook a brisket. That's not service. That's love.

There's a certain magic to HEB. You'll strike up a conversation with the person in line behind you about how saffron is used to make yellow rice, and before you know it, you've made a new friend. It's like everyone who shops there is a member of the same congregation.

Hallelujah.

So, the next time you walk into HEB, take a moment to appreciate what it really is: a sacred place of food, fellowship, and good ol' Southern hospitality.

I'll tell you this: I'd rather live in a town with 1,000 HEBs and no other stores than anywhere that doesn't carry the HEB brand. And that, my friends, is the gospel truth.