Even before a stream of wide-eyed World Cup visitors arrived in the U.S. this summer to marvel at the square footage and enjoy the free samples, it's been a busy year in the Costco cinematic universe.
Alongside more predictable viral hits of influencers curating store offerings for the Super Bowl and Lunar New Year, viewers were treated to Tik Tok and Instagram updates about date nights in the warehouse club, in-store surprise birthdays, marriage proposals and even Costco-themed house parties. With Mardi Gras season in full swing, a local brass band performed at an Alabama warehouse, and not long after opening day, one intrepid Colorado Rockies fan brought an entire Costco rotisserie chicken to Coors Field to feast on inside the stadium.
In another era, the sheer ubiquity of true believers spreading the gospel about the big-box retailer might have been gauged in box-office sales, Nielsen ratings or albums sold -- the old metrics of monoculture that popular wisdom now says are ether dead or dying. But in a high-friction America, with two competing Super Bowl halftime shows and a fractured, contentious politics, the common ritual of Costco suggests that monoculture hasn't disappeared. It's just been reformatted.
"Costco seems to me to be kind of like the heartbeat of America culturally, in a way," said Noah Rinsky. "It seems to be one of the last places that, across the aisle, we can all agree is good."
Rinsky is the deceptively young, late-30s founder of Old Jewish Men (OJM), a Brooklyn-based digital lifestyle brand with nearly 875,000 followers across Instagram and TikTok. OJM devotes a considerable share of its content to Costco-related high-jinks, and even hosted a chicken-eating contest that drew hundreds of strangers to a sidewalk in Park Slope last month. The joke plays on the idea that Costco's unfussy, value-driven modeling -- and especially its prized $4.99 rotisserie chicken -- aligns spiritually with old Jewish men in ways that a pricier, more precious outfit like Whole Foods could never.
Even as an endearing lack of flashiness drives tens of millions of domestic memberships, affection for Costco can't be explained by its perceived grit or value alone. American roadsides and strip malls are stocked with retailers offering competitive pricing and an aversion to soft lighting. Over 200 million American shoppers use Amazon Prime without (literally) singing in the streets about it.
As a unifying quality, the pragmatic frugality of Costco's free snack samples and jumbo boxes of 1,875 Q-tips seems to tap in to what Woodrow Wilson identified as America's "spiritual efficiency," a national mindset encompassing the aphorisms of Benjamin Franklin's Poor Richard and Warren Buffett's reluctance to trade up his 12-year-old Cadillac.
And at a time when even affluent shoppers are nervously turning to discount stores, consumer lust over Costco's seasonal specialties or one of its Kirkland brand dupes that eerily resembles a more expensive item projects a sense that the elusive trappings of the good life are still obtainable.
Shortly before we spoke, Laura Lamb, who runs Costco Hot Finds, an account with over 5.6 million followers between Facebook, Instagram, and TikTok, posted about a well-priced, eight-pound tray of bone-in chicken wings she found at her local club. With a flurry of major sporting events unfolding, she predicted that the excitement around this seemingly minor find would ignite a digital storm. She was right.
"It's moving so fast on my Instagram right now that my analytics will not pull up the correct numbers," Lamb said of her post. "The sheer fact that you can get these wings at $5.99 a pound means you're getting this huge value." Within days, a number of food and lifestyle websites had published euphoric stories about Lamb's discovery.
Adding to Costco's allure in a way that makes it a safe subject for influencers, its employees have a reputation for being friendly, long-tenured -- and well treated. Costco staffers are compensated far above the retail industry average, and the company's CEO, Ron Vachris, started on the warehouse floor as a forklift operator.
"I've gone into other stores where nobody knows the answers to any questions or no one really wants to help you or you can't find someone to help you," said Jessica, the operator of Costco Empties, a semi-anonymous account for "best finds" with a user profile boasting "Costco is my cardio."
To some, the thought of a retailer or any brand with mass appeal forming the basis of collective understanding may sound ridiculous, but historians and cultural observers have long pointed to postwar prosperity as the bedrock of America's deep attachment to consumerism, along with retail-therapy rituals that have been framed as patriotic at times.
Perhaps a key difference that gives Costco the monocultural edge over our increasingly algorithmized culture is that it doesn't revolve around a single type of storytelling, or even agreed-upon facts. Most of all, it's an active pursuit -- uniquely American in its intense focus on getting things done.
And by inspiring simultaneous awe over good corporate citizenship and 72-pound wheels of Parmigiano reggiano, Costco seems to be one of the few entities with the cachet and mass appeal to break through.
Of course, the $1.50 hot-dog-and-soda combo never hurts.
Write to Adam Chandler at Adam.Chandler@wsj.com
(END) Dow Jones Newswires
July 13, 2026 11:45 ET (15:45 GMT)
Copyright (c) 2026 Dow Jones & Company, Inc.
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