What Erewhon Knows

In the 1960s, two Japanese macrobiotic enthusiasts started a health-food sect beloved by celebrity hippies. Fifty-seven years and a corporate makeover later, it's the most culty grocer in America.

- By Kerry Howley. Photo-Ilustration by Joe-Darrow

IT'S 9:30 A.M. ON A Wednesday in Pasadena, and it ought to be a sleepy morning on South Lake, there beside the Macy's and T.J.Maxx and Ross Dress for Less and various other retail establishments one might reasonably have thought had gone bankrupt, but more than 300 people have swarmed the sidewalk and many have been milling for hours. They were drawn here by the promise of what passes, at Erewhon, for a deal: the secular privilege of spending $200 on groceries to receive, in turn, a tote bag full of on-brand Erewhon goods (dragon-fruitrose pick-me-up beauty water, two kinds of avocado oil, beekeeper's immune spray), alongside the immeasurable spiritual privilege of being among the first inside the tenth location of America's buzziest grocery store.

There's a ribbon to be cut, though the threshold has already been crossed; last night, Erewhon summoned 400 influencers through sliding glass doors. Those influencers have already posted their "Get ready with me" TikToks ("I feel so grateful and blessed to have been invited to this"), attended the launch, gone home, set up their cameras across from their full goody bags, and posted their hauls ("Our new Erewhon hats? How cute? Literally so cute. We love."). At the grand opening, which follows the influencer event and precedes a "wellness event," there are, at any given time, several people walking the sidewalk and filming said line with their phones. There is a man holding up his phone and spinning for an aerial view of other people waiting. The very first shopper, Kathleen O'Heron, snagged her place at 5:30 and will have waited four and a half hours to get in. "Why?" I ask her. "Great question," she says. "Content."