Super U Broons

Those blue-and-white signs on the edge of town have always felt like a welcome flag to me, and that’s basically the short, human version of why it’s called Super U Broons. The name is simply the retail chain’s brand plus the town it serves: 'Super U' is the supermarket format from the cooperative group Système U, and 'Broons' is the locality in Brittany where the shop sits. Over the decades the chain used the basic pattern of brand + town so people instantly know both the company and which local store you mean.

I grew up watching the supermarket become a familiar landmark — families would say they were popping down to 'the Super U in Broons' and eventually that got compressed into 'Super U Broons' on signs, flyers, and online. For extra color: Système U started as a federation of independent retailers, so the 'U' became the recognizable umbrella and the adjective (like 'Super') denotes the format. Putting the town name after the brand is practical: directions, loyalty programs, local promotions, job postings, and the GPS all use that same convention.

If you’re curious about the town name itself, Broons is a historic place in Côtes-d'Armor with roots going back to medieval times; like many French place names it probably evolved from older Breton or Latin forms. But the store’s name isn’t a mysterious etymology project — it’s just a clear label: the Super U located in Broons. For me, seeing that sign still feels cozy and local, the supermarket version of a neighborhood handshake.

Brightly illustrated and bursting with affectionate chaos, 'Super U Broons' volume one flips the classic family comic into something delightfully bonkers. The plot kicks off when the Broons — a big, lovable clan from a wee Scottish town — stumble upon a mysterious artifact shaped like a glowing 'U' at the annual village fair. Each family member absorbs a different facet of the 'U's power, which bizarrely mirrors their personalities: stubbornness becomes unshakeable strength, mischief becomes teleportation for quick escapes, and granny’s knitting turns into reality-warping yarn. At first it's all slapstick and one-upmanship as everyone tries to work out what their newfound abilities mean.

Things get grounded when the local bully-councillor, who’s been squeezing the town for development cash, catches wind of the artifact and schemes to confiscate it. That sets up a series of episodes where the Broons must learn to cooperate instead of squabbling. Volume one balances small, cozy scenes — like Maw trying to keep dignity while Auntie’s new super-voice scares the choir — with bigger set pieces, such as a midnight raid on the council chambers and a chaotic rescue at the pier during the Highland Games.

The heart of the book is the family: how their bickers and routines both complicate and ultimately power their heroics. The art keeps things lively, leaning into slapstick facial expressions and panels that slow down for emotional beats. By the end of volume one, they’ve saved the town in a thoroughly Scottish, slightly daft way, and you walk away giggling and oddly teary. I loved how it turned everyday domestic stuff into genuine adventure, and those final panels of the family at the chippy felt warm in a way that stuck with me.

Bright, chaotic, and full of that warm, cheeky humour, the 'Super U Broons' arc really hoists the family front-and-center. I find myself smiling at how the patriarch, 'Paw Broon', naturally becomes the anchor of the storyline — he’s the one who clamps down on every madcap plan and yet somehow embodies the “super” heart of the whole thing. In my view Paw is the emotional lead: his decisions drive the plot, his stubbornness lands half the jokes, and his attempts at heroics (very unorthodox heroics) push everyone into action.

Alongside him, 'Horace' steps up as the de facto on-the-ground lead. He’s the one actually trying to make the grand schemes work, fumbling through costumes, gadgets or whatever props the strip throws at him. His relationship with Paw is the engine of a lot of the arc’s best scenes — classic generational back-and-forth with a superhero twist. The rest of the brood — 'Maw Broon', 'Joe', 'Maggie', 'Daphne' and even 'Granpaw' — rotate into spotlight moments, each bringing a different flavour: Maw’s dry pragmatism, Joe’s mischief, Maggie’s unexpected savvy.

What I love is that leadership isn’t handed to one person alone; it's a family orchestra. The arc uses Paw and Horace as the main conductors, but every comic episode hands off a solo to someone else, so the cast feels alive. It feels less like a single superhero origin and more like a family sitcom with capes, which is exactly why I keep rereading those pages.