Customers shop at a Costco Wholesale store on Jan. 31 in Chicago, Illinois.Scott Olson/Getty Images
Canadians aren’t known for their public outbursts of patriotism. Least of all at Costco.
And on any other day, the double-wide freezer aisles and smell of hot dog water wafting over from the snack bar would feel as far removed as possible from the White House or Parliament Hill. But all around this Toronto big-box store this week was evidence of a feud weighing heavily on the minds of Canadians.
Standing in front of a freezer filled with riced cauliflower Monday, Michael Orr squinted at an $11.49 bag of frozen vegetables. He was trying to decipher, from the tiny print on the bag, whether it had been produced in the U.S. He and his wife had agreed before coming to the store that they would adopt a “Buy Canadian” approach.
“I’m very angry about the actions the U.S. is taking,” said the otherwise mild-mannered retiree, leaning against the handle of his cart. Mr. Orr had been following the news closely, and U.S. President Donald Trump had not yet announced a pause on his threat of tariffs on Canadian imports.
Mr. Orr said he doesn’t consider himself anti-American. He worked for IBM – even lived for a time in the U.S.
“If anything, I’m quite pro-American. But the situation right now, I just find intolerable.”
In his cart was a two-pound bag of Balzac’s coffee – an Ontario-based company. He’d chosen it over his usual Kirkland brand beans, which are roasted in the U.S. He’d also chosen crackers made in B.C. Melatonin tablets made in Canada. He’s even sworn off his favourite Napa Valley wine for the time being, opting instead for Italian.
The contradiction of shopping at Costco was not lost on him. It is, of course, an American company, headquartered in Washington state. And as a symbol, Costco is about as synonymous with the American dream as it gets: A car in every garage – because you need a car to get to Costco – and a (bagged) rotisserie chicken on every table.
“I did think, ‘Should I be coming here?’” Mr. Orr said. But the store, he rationalized, supports Canadian jobs. And many of the products it carries are Canadian.
(And, as a company, Costco has in fact pushed back against some of Mr. Trump’s policies, doubling down in recent weeks on its commitments to diversity, equity and inclusion.)
Across the concrete warehouse space was evidence of the inextricable links between the two countries – the extent to which the American dream and the Costco dream have also become the Canadian dream. Bags of Tim Hortons coffee. Denim in bulk. Poutine at the snack bar.
But it’s that relationship – and the degree to which our supply chains are intertwined – that has stumped even the most well-intentioned shoppers. Many at the store had difficulty deciphering the origin of products – whether items were Canadian, American or, sometimes, both.
In the clothing section, Jennifer Noble was fumbling with a beige cotton T-shirt she’d chosen for her husband. “All of his T-shirts are falling apart.” But she couldn’t figure out where the shirt was made. Maybe this experience, she reasoned, would motivate companies to showcase “Made in Canada” products more clearly.
After combing over the tag several times, she finally turned to the label on the inside of the shirt and read it aloud: “Made in Cambodia.”
She let out a sigh. “Do I support a sweatshop?” she asked. “Or support the U.S.?” For today, she decided, her priority was to not support Americans.
Standing in front of a rack of fleece zip-ups, Karl Zimmermann was dealing with his own mixed feelings. He, too, had come to the store intending to choose Canadian products. But he didn’t like the idea of hurting American workers.
It’s Mr. Trump he blames. “He’s the driving force behind this,” he said. “He doesn’t have a problem hurting Canadian workers or Canadian people.”
And over in the refrigerated produce section, Sven Thaysen, too, was torn. He felt good knowing that the hummus and tissues in his cart were Canadian. So too was the butter and milk. And he’d returned a package of organic spinach from the U.S., reasoning that he could find an alternative elsewhere.
But still, he couldn’t resist at least one of his favourites: jars of thick, red Rao’s marinara sauce. An American company. “A dirty little secret,” he said. The sauce was on sale, he explained – two jars for just $12.99. Basically half-price. He gave a guilty shrug, as if to say, “What can you do?”
Of course, not all shoppers that day appeared to be driven entirely by patriotism.
Waiting in line to check out, Cheryl Barton took in the crowd around her. She suspected, based on the long lines for a Monday afternoon – reaching all the way back to the snack aisle – that some shoppers were there to stock up on U.S. products ahead of potential tariffs. She pointed to a nearby cart stacked with bottles of Florida orange juice.
“This is not a weekday crowd,” she said. “This is a weekend crowd.”
Still, back in the freezer aisle, Mr. Orr, a management consultant, said that regardless of how Mr. Trump ultimately decides on tariffs, this experience might have a lasting effect on Canadians.
Consumer shopping habits, especially at the grocery store, are notoriously hard to break. And once customers move away from U.S. products, he said, it might be difficult to win them back.
His emotional response to this week’s events, he said, wasn’t entirely due to patriotism. He was not angry simply at the threats to Canada. What upset him most was what he saw as an attack on reason – Mr. Trump’s ever-shifting rationale behind the tariffs.
“He’s just factually incorrect,” he said. “Goodness even knows what the real reason is.”
