In praise of Costco

Those who use TikTok, or are familiar with dance routines on social media, may have heard of the “Costco Guys.” For those with an aversion to TikTok, 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.”

Patrick Maguire was probably right in the London Times 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 favors the brave: heart-stopping bulk deals will appear and then disappear without warning.

When cut-price Mutti tinned tomatoes materialized, I urgently instructed my father to buy a trolley load. He refused, insisting we didn’t have space for fifty 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, a boy and his granny were together devouring a colossal 18-inch pepperoni pizza ($9.95). There was a young couple on a date, feeding each other Italian gelato.

People queued for the famous “1⁄4 pound plus ALL BEEF HOT DOG” which comes with a 22oz fizzy drink (unlimited refills). That hot dog, which is topped with caramelized 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 a gym and spa session across the road (courtesy of life membership bought on the cheap decades ago), followed by baked 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 twenty 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 instill loyalty. Membership costs just $65 a year. 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.

This article was originally published in The Spectator’s March 2025 World edition.