Restaurant Depot is a nationwide chain of warehouse stores that cater to restaurants. In order to shop there you have to be in the restaurant business.

In order to enjoy shopping at Restaurant Depot I think it helps to have an affection for American Democracy Aborning.

I always go to the store in blue collar Chelsea, Mass. Chelsea contains the very large New England Produce Market, a wonderful bagel company that struggles on in a town with few Jews, several almost abandoned Polish fraternal organizations and a leftover Russian steam bath. It is also a vibrant town full of new Americans of many origins.

The restaurant industry has few of what economists call “barriers to entry.” If you or your mother can make a great fresh mozzarella or tasty arrepa you are almost ready to open. The staff and customer base of Restaurant Depot reflect those possibilities.

Occasionally I will encounter a more established chef or restaurant owner. Some act embarassed as though I’d caught them in the act of buying frozen vegetables but sometimes they will confess how much fun they think it is to save money buying supplies in such a hurlyburly, Star Wars bar atmosphere.

The interior of Restaurant Depot consists of towering four story shelves that are filled and emptied by young men driving noisy frontloaders. The aisles resonate with that regular honk vehicles make when backing up, except the honking is inside the building and not in the surrounding parking lot. On busy days all the motion can verge on chaos.

Customers reveal the future of the American food business and maybe even the country’s future. Religious Moslem women lead their sons, who are already dressed in hip hop sports clothing. A percentage of the customers bring their children. A good day will include a turbaned Sikh or a Haitian family with a high school age translator.

Once I was in line behind a Brazilian purchasing hundreds of pounds of marscapone cheese. After guessing about the appropriateness of a question I asked what he was doing with all that Italian cream cheese. “I make cannoli with them and we sell the cannoli throughout eastern Massachusetts.”

On another occasion I needed soy milk. I approached a worker and asked if he spoke English. “Un poquito” he said, making a small measure with thumb and forefinger. “Tiene leche de soy?” I asked. He then turned into Senor Koharski, my high school Spanish teacher, “la leche de soya?” he asked with emphasis on the missing “a.” “Si,” I said, “la leche de soya.” Switching to English he said, “No. We don’t have any.”

I went down an aisle and asked another worked in Spanish if he spoke English. He was apologetic, “I’m sorry. I only speak English.” Which is okay because I only speak English.