Those who use TikTok, or are familiar with Ed Davey’s dance routines on social media, may have heard of the ‘Costco Guys’. For those with an aversion to TikTok (or to Ed Davey), Andrew ‘A.J.’ Befumo Jr. and Eric ‘Big Justice’ Befumo are a father-and-son duo who became internet celebrities by gorging on food items in their local Costco in Florida and rating them on a ‘boom or doom’ scale. Cue 2.5 million followers and debut single ‘We Bring the Boom’ – which Davey chose as the soundtrack to his latest bid for online attention.
Patrick Maguire was probably right in the Times last week to say that this sort of soul-crushingly knuckleheaded viral fame justifies Oxford University Press’s decision to make ‘brain rot’ its word of the year. And yet I’m with A.J. and Big Justice. My father and I are devoted Costco Guys.
The wholesaler has everything. You can go intending to pick up some caramel pecan popcorn and come back with a four-poster bed. Costco is also cheap, though fortune favours the brave: heart-stopping bulk deals will appear and then disappear without warning. When cut-price Mutti tinned tomatoes materialised, I urgently instructed my father to buy a trolley load. He refused, insisting we didn’t have space for 50 cans at home. The next time we went shopping, the Mutti was gone. I was angry at him for days.
Why else do I prefer the vast warehouses of Costco to a regular supermarket? Well, they accept returns on basically anything. They also have an excellent optician on site. At checkout, they’ll scan your heavy goods without making you unload them from the trolley. Then there are the exciting pneumatic tubes that whizz bundles of banknotes around the building whenever the cashiers empty their tills. As a kid I would crane my neck heavenward, dreaming that one day a bundle would take a wrong turn and £50 notes would rain down upon us. I still do, actually.
The Costco food court is alarmingly unhealthy but strangely joyful. When I last visited my local branch in Watford, a boy and his granny were together devouring a colossal 18in pepperoni pizza (£9.99). There was a young couple on a date, feeding each other Italian gelato. People queued for the famous ‘¼ pound plus ALL BEEF HOT DOG’ which comes with a 22oz fizzy drink (unlimited refills). That hot dog, which is topped with caramelised onions, ketchup and mustard, is £1.50. The price hasn’t changed since 1985.
A distinguished-looking retired man told me his daily routine consists of gym and spa at the David Lloyd across the road (courtesy of life membership bought on the cheap decades ago), followed by jacket potato with beans and cheese at Costco. ‘It fuels me for the whole day,’ he said cheerily. ‘My wife hasn’t needed to cook for me for 20 years.’ His daily outgoings must be less than the average person spends on a coffee. Costco is ‘members only’, which gives it both an air of exclusivity and helps instil loyalty. Membership costs just over £30 a year – but you need to be either a business owner or on a bizarre list of eligible professions, from chartered accountant to fire service. My father and I failed to make the cut for Soho House membership, so it’s gratifying to know that, in Costco, there’s a club that’s happy to have us.
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