The beloved food store suffered damage from an electrical fire…
If you’ve ever worked in a kitchen—or cared about where your food actually comes from—then you know places like Schiff’s (3410 North Main Avenue) are sacred.
Not fancy. Not some massive, warehouse-sized retail juggernaut. Just rows of real food, freshly made kielbasa sticks, hand-cut meat, eggs by the case, and aisles of industrial-sized everything. For over 75 years, Schiff’s Marketplace in Scranton has been the quiet engine behind much of what hits your plate when you eat out in Northeast PA. And now, for a minute, that engine’s gone quiet.
Last Sunday, while most of us were prepping for another forgettable dinner, an electrical fire sparked inside a freezer door at Schiff’s. No dramatic flames. No roaring inferno. Just enough heat to send smoke curling through the building, coating shelves, produce, meat, history. The staff moved fast. Firefighters moved faster. But when the smoke cleared, they had no choice: most of the store was covered in soot. Schiff’s Scranton location is now closed “until further notice.”
And with that, one of Scranton’s most essential food institutions pressed pause.
A Marketplace, a Lifeline
To call Schiff’s a grocery store is a massive understatement. It undersells the soul of the thing.
This is where restaurant owners, line cooks, caterers, deli slicers, and everyday home chefs have come for generations. You want 50 pounds of skirt steak? You want chicken that hasn’t been frozen since the Bush administration? You want to see the face of the guy who just ground your pork shoulder? Go to Schiff’s.
They supply the restaurants you love—the ones with actual character, not chains built for mall parking lots. Their wholesale division, Schiff’s Restaurant Service Inc., keeps the kitchens of Scranton humming, even when the economy isn’t.
That’s why this fire? It hits harder than most.
Cleanup and Comeback
The damage was mostly smoke—but smoke gets everywhere. In the product. In the air ducts. In the bones of the place. The team tossed all perishables, scrubbing everything else down to bare shelves. No shortcuts. No “good enough.” Just elbow grease, disinfectant, and the kind of long hours that don’t make it into press releases.
And while the Scranton store remains closed for now, Schiff’s Forty Fort location has stepped in to keep restaurant supply flowing. No missed deliveries. No excuses. Just boots on the ground and trucks on the road. Downtime isn’t an option for a place like Schiff’s.
Why It Matters
This wasn’t just a bump in the road. It’s a reminder of what’s fragile—and what’s worth protecting. Schiff’s isn’t Whole Foods. It isn’t corporate, or hip, or overpriced. It’s working-class, generational, and gritty in all the right ways.
It’s also indispensable.
So when they reopen—and they will—go. Even if you don’t need 20 pounds of flank steak or a five-gallon tub of mayo. Go because you can smell the kielbasa from the parking lot. Go because someone there remembers your name. Go because this is the kind of place that still gives a damn, and that’s rarer than it should be.
In the meantime, the crew scrubs. The smoke clears. And Scranton waits—for the lights to flick back on, for the slicers to whirr, for the coffee to brew behind the butcher counter.
Because when Schiff’s comes back, we’ll all eat better for it.
