At the end of each month, I eagerly anticipate the new issue of Saveur; when it arrives in the mailbox, I do a little jig. This month’s issue on food markets of the world (not the A&P kind) is a particular standout. I took the magazine outside, sat down in the grass and plowed through it in one shot while listening to tunes on Pandora.
Loved the issue, but it also made me wistfully nostalgic for Central Market in Lancaster, PA, from which I lived a stone’s throw away (literally, 25 yards) for two years. If you’re familiar with Reading Terminal Market in Philadelphia, think of Central Market as its kid brother. My interest in food had already reached healthy levels before I’d moved to PA; living so close to the market exploded that interest into a full-blown passion.
Saturday mornings were a blissful ritual: get up, make the 30-second walk and leisurely roam up and down the aisles of the 20,000 square foot historic building. I’d pick up everything I needed for the week, and inevitably return home with a few extraneous items that were impossible to resist, like samosas, spanakopitas, a piece of Lancaster fudge, a meatball parm, or a bag of beef jerky from the S. Clyde Weaver stand. No matter how many times I went to market, there was always something new to discover. Never did try scrapple, though.
The names are beginning to fade, but I still remember all the faces: There was Roger the poultry dude, who greeted me with a hearty “Hey Doug!” and always knew what I wanted; the meat vendor was a sweet guy too, picking out the best flank steaks or other cuts; the portly produce vendor at the front would throw a few freebie vegetables in my bag, and if it was near closing time, he’d give me a great deal on whatever he had left.
There was the little lady whose tiny produce stand was dwarfed by the surrounding stands; she only seemed to sell a few heads of celery, but somehow she got by. Near the back of the market, the Amish boy, who looked all of 12 years old, manning the glistening rotisserie chickens. And in a middle aisle, the spice guy with ponytail and glasses; he weighed the spices and poured them into little pouches, and it always made me feel like I was purchasing a dime bag of something illicit.
I was buying local before I knew what buying local was. The meats were special — they tasted ten times better than anything from a supermarket. Fruits and veggies were excellent too, but not in a uniform, cookie-cutter, supermarket way. There were occasional blemishes, misshapes and gnarls, and you picked through to find what you wanted. It was real food being sold by real people.
When I moved to New York, I knew I would never have the same kind of experience again. The low point that first week was the profound sense of dislocation I felt upon entering the sterile A&P in Port Chester and glumly realizing the market days of Lancaster were over. No one at the A&P knew my name, and frankly, no one cared. Where were Roger, celery lady and the spice guy??
The Westchester farmers’ markets have helped dull the ache, but I will always miss Central Market. It was a community unto itself. Shopping there was an event. Those were two fun years.
What are your market rituals? What’s your favorite market? And why do you love it so much?
Farmers’ Market Nostalgia
At the end of each month, I eagerly anticipate the new issue of Saveur; when it arrives in the mailbox, I do a little jig. This month’s issue on food markets of the world (not the A&P kind) is a particular standout. I took the magazine outside, sat down in the grass and plowed through it in one shot while listening to tunes on Pandora.
Loved the issue, but it also made me wistfully nostalgic for Central Market in Lancaster, PA, from which I lived a stone’s throw away (literally, 25 yards) for two years. If you’re familiar with Reading Terminal Market in Philadelphia, think of Central Market as its kid brother. My interest in food had already reached healthy levels before I’d moved to PA; living so close to the market exploded that interest into a full-blown passion.
Saturday mornings were a blissful ritual: get up, make the 30-second walk and leisurely roam up and down the aisles of the 20,000 square foot historic building. I’d pick up everything I needed for the week, and inevitably return home with a few extraneous items that were impossible to resist, like samosas, spanakopitas, a piece of Lancaster fudge, a meatball parm, or a bag of beef jerky from the S. Clyde Weaver stand. No matter how many times I went to market, there was always something new to discover. Never did try scrapple, though.
The names are beginning to fade, but I still remember all the faces: There was Roger the poultry dude, who greeted me with a hearty “Hey Doug!” and always knew what I wanted; the meat vendor was a sweet guy too, picking out the best flank steaks or other cuts; the portly produce vendor at the front would throw a few freebie vegetables in my bag, and if it was near closing time, he’d give me a great deal on whatever he had left.
There was the little lady whose tiny produce stand was dwarfed by the surrounding stands; she only seemed to sell a few heads of celery, but somehow she got by. Near the back of the market, the Amish boy, who looked all of 12 years old, manning the glistening rotisserie chickens. And in a middle aisle, the spice guy with ponytail and glasses; he weighed the spices and poured them into little pouches, and it always made me feel like I was purchasing a dime bag of something illicit.
I was buying local before I knew what buying local was. The meats were special — they tasted ten times better than anything from a supermarket. Fruits and veggies were excellent too, but not in a uniform, cookie-cutter, supermarket way. There were occasional blemishes, misshapes and gnarls, and you picked through to find what you wanted. It was real food being sold by real people.
When I moved to New York, I knew I would never have the same kind of experience again. The low point that first week was the profound sense of dislocation I felt upon entering the sterile A&P in Port Chester and glumly realizing the market days of Lancaster were over. No one at the A&P knew my name, and frankly, no one cared. Where were Roger, celery lady and the spice guy??
The Westchester farmers’ markets have helped dull the ache, but I will always miss Central Market. It was a community unto itself. Shopping there was an event. Those were two fun years.
What are your market rituals? What’s your favorite market? And why do you love it so much?