A couple of weeks ago, I was in the Market last in the afternoon on a Friday, looking for someone to talk to, when I wandered up to the Young’s Garden stand. I was pulled in that direction not so much because I wanted to strike up a conversation but more because I am always drawn to fresh herbs that are growing and thriving (I grow a few little things in my apartment, next to the window, but I don’t have a lick of outdoor space).

After a moment of lustful moments of staring at the rosemary and thyme plants, I introduced myself to the woman behind the makeshift counter, who was tying up bundles of long-stemmed lilies. I told her about the project, and asked if she had any good stories. She considered the request for a second, before replying that she did have a good story, although it wasn’t entirely hers.

More than ten years ago, she (Pam) and her husband (Russell) started a little herb business. They would sell their pots of herbs at markets and festivals, but it was hard to make a go of it without a steady location from which to sell (and often times the weather was terrible, which effected sales as well as their own dedication to the start-up). They played with the idea of trying to sell in Reading Terminal Market, but were intimidated by the established nature of the Market. It seemed nearly impenetrable to them.

However, one day they decided it couldn’t hurt to ask and so Russell came in to talk to the Market manager (Pam stressed how nervous he was when he first came to ask). He wasn’t there that day, but he was told to come back the following day, which he did. Russell talked to him and was told without formality or the jumping through of hoops that they were welcome to start the following day at a card table near Center Court. All that tension and worry turned out to be for nothing, they were in via a simple request.

The Young’s have been at the Market nearly ten years now. After establishing themselves with a table stand, they moved on to rent out the Buttermilk stall. The stall turned out to be a struggle for them and so late last year, they moved back to a table, this time using an old Reading Terminal luggage cart from the days when horses helped to pull the trunks and suitcases from the baggage holds, as the counter. It is easy to tell how much Pam loves the Market from the way she talks about her experiences there. She speaks about the institution and the management in the way that most people talk about friends and family.

I spent most of the afternoon tucked away in a corner of the market, watching the bakers at Flying Monkey frost cupcakes with small, offset spatulas (I need to get one of those) and listening to the guys at the Shoe Doctor joke and laugh. Around 3:30 I was getting tired of sitting in one place, packed up my stuff and wandered through the Market.

My feet took me to the Fair Food Farmstand and I found myself standing in front of the display of Rainier cherries (they are the ones that are striated with streaks of yellow and red). I bought a pint for $4.75, because they remind me of my early teen years, when we lived in a house that had a Rainier cherry tree. The birds liked those cherries as much as we did and most years made off with more than half the fruit. Luckily for us, the tree hung over a second-story deck, which made the top branches accessible.  That cherry tree was, hands down, the best part of that house.

I collected a few other things and made my way up to the counter to pay.  I was given a friendly greeting and introduced to Emily, who told me that the new potatoes are in.  She said that the reason they are called new potatoes is because they are picked when the plants are still small and green, which is why the potatoes are thin-skinned and small.  She held out a small yukon gold for me to look at.  It was luminous and tender and made me fantasize about roasting them with whole cloves of garlic, kosher salt and several glugs of olive oil.

When I asked her what she had in mind for the box of baby reds she was buying, she told me that she was going to make a very simple vegan potato salad that Patience, the mother of a friend, had invented.  You quarter and boil the potatoes and then toss them with mashed avocado, chopped shallots, salt and pepper.  The avocado acts as a binding agent in place of mayonnaise or other dressing.  I think it sounds wonderful (although if you weren’t going to be able to eat it right away, you might want to give it a squeeze of lemon juice, to keep the avocado from browning too rapidly).

Today I was lucky enough to be in possession of a friend’s new fast and fancy Canon SLR and so I spent most of my time in the Market taking pictures instead of talking to people. I’m going to have to give the camera back soon, and wanted to stock up on pictures to use to illustrate these posts.

As I walked around, I realized that in addition to giving me an opportunity to take some really lovely photographs, the camera was also helping me see the Market through fresh eyes. As I’ve spent time in Reading Terminal over the last month, I’ve unconsciously established routines.  I come in and walk down the aisles in the same order each day, and my eyes fall on the same sights.  Having the camera in hand forced me to look up and down, to alter my customary patterns and to search out different places to stand in order to capture different perspectives.

When I first started this project, I mentioned it to a guy I know who lives out in Los Angeles these days, but who used to live in Philly about 15 years ago.  He said that he had always loved the peking duck at Sang Kee.  I replied back that I had never eaten there, and that I didn’t think it was there anymore.  Today, because I was seeing things through fresh eyes, I realized that Sang Kee was absolutely still there and that I had been blindly walking by it every day.  It was shocking to realize that I had been so unconscious and it made me wonder what else I was missing.

I haven’t tried the peking duck yet, but that’s coming any day now.  After all, it came highly recommended.

One thing that has become clear to me as I’ve walked the aisles and talked to people over the last few weeks is how much the Market is a second home to many. When I’m there in the late afternoon, I often see the same handful of folks, sitting at the same tables, comfortable in space that has become theirs through repetition and familiarity.

As I walk, I peak into the back areas of stalls, looking to catch the stirfry cook engaged in a private moment or the glimpse the woman who is waiting for her boyfriend to finish making sandwiches so they can walk home together.

Last Friday afternoon, I wandered past the Cookbook Stall and caught a glimpse of a young family sitting on the floor. They were tucked behind the waist high bookshelf, two young parents playing with their baby. I figured that one of them worked there and that the partner had come in a little early to pick them up. The Market was really quiet that afternoon, so they were taking the opportunity to enjoy one another and let the time pass until it was time to go home.

I walked by a couple of times, not wanting to give the impression that I was invading their privacy, but still wanting to witness this little bubble of contentment and family space that they had created on the floor of a stall in a normally bustling public area. I had my camera in my hand but I didn’t take a picture, because I didn’t think it was fair to intrude on them in that way.

I had lunch with Eric Vincent this week, a local music producer who introduced me to an amazing sandwich and who, back in the day, spent some time working a grill at a couple of different stands. He talked about how, in many respects, he grew up in the Market. It was his first job in Center City, but he seems to have been shaped by the attitude of acceptance and respect that was the rule in those days. He said that working at Reading Terminal was a lot like being part of a family. Nobody let you get away with anything, but in the end, they always had your back.

As a result of the article in the PW yesterday, I’ve been getting emails from people who have stories to tell about the Market. The story you see below is from Patrick, who worked at Reading Terminal in the early 90’s.  If you have a story to tell, let me know.

Not a sepia tone tale from 50 years ago, more like 15 years ago. In the spring of 1993 I got a job at a stand (name withheld to protect the innocent) in the Reading Terminal Market. I had been working in the corporate world and at the age of 24 I had my mid-life crisis and realized that I had not been enough of a slacker. I threw away my suits, started playing in a punk band again, stayed out late and barely got in before I had to go out to my $8.00/hour job.

In 1993 the market was in the home stretch of its multi-year renovation. The convention center was still under construction. The market bathrooms were trailers on Filbert Street and the train shed was finally getting a new roof. For the previous decade when it rained outside, it rained inside the market. The market had a very different vibe back then. Not better but it had a lot of “atmosphere.”

Part of the renovation agreement with the merchants was to do the work in 5 stages and relocate merchants to temporary digs so everyone could stay open. So every 10 months a number merchants would move back to their old location, with new equipment, better layout and no leaky roofs.

The section of the market I was working in was the last section to be renovated. This led to a few interesting experiences. Now, you have to remember that the market was neglected of basic maintenance for years and was in the middle of a 2 city block long construction site and next to the commuter tunnel. At the time there were a very large number of small furry visitors in the market. As the renovation progressed floors were patched and holes were sealed. As a result all of the critters were evicted into our general area-the last section to get renovated.

Part of my job was to open the stand, meaning I got there around 7am, a hour before the market opened to the public. Before I turned on the lights I would have to climb on the counters because the floor would be covered in rodents, giving it the appearance of life. The entire day was a battle to keep the food sealed away and redirect the customers who would often comment, “hey, is that a rat in the aisle?”

During that time, I also discovered the cats. There were dozens of cats living up in the train shed that started to take over the Terminal as the work progressed. There were cats everywhere for a week. And suddenly they were gone. I still never found out what happened to them.

NOTE-After the renovation was completed; there were no more signs of rodents. The market has a stringent abatement program and this problem no longer exist.

My Reading Terminal Market Story Project got a little boost in notoriety today (a big note of welcome to those of you who are new here), in the form of an article in the Philadelphia Weekly by local food writer, Mara Zepeda. Mara contacted me about two weeks ago, having heard about my project on Uwishunu.com and asked if she could interview me for a story.

We met up at the Market one morning last week and spent a couple of hours talking about my initial inspiration for the project, how it’s been going so far and all the interesting conversations I’ve been having with the merchants, staff and shoppers at Reading Terminal.

I already wrote about Anna, the woman who I met in pursuit of a photo opportunity for the article.  Iam grateful I had the chance to talk about her, as she had a long history with the Market and much wisdom to impart about life in general.

If you have a story to share about the Market, please contact me by either leaving a comment on this post or by sending me an email at rtmstoryproject@gmail.com.  I’ll make sure to follow up everyone.

In the last few years, the Market has added some additional seating back behind the Fair Food Farmstand and the Golden Fish Market. In addition to the plastic chairs and tables that fill this area, there is an upright piano.

Most afternoons, you can find someone sitting at that piano, playing for enjoyment and a few tips. Last Friday afternoon, an older gentleman was the one sitting behind the keys. Most of the people sitting in the area surrounding him weren’t paying much attention to the music. The woman sitting to my left was feeding her 14-month-old grandson an afternoon snack, while three girls a couple tables away were scribbling their teenage angst into matching journals.

However, one woman was paying him the whole of her attention. She had drawn the chair that was closest to him up so that she could reach out and touch the back of the piano if she wished. Wearing a long red skirt, short-sleeved white sweater and a light-yellow brimmed hat with a pink fabric flower pinned to the side, she kept uneven time with a bouncing foot. For the longest time, she clutched a five dollar bill in her right hand, as if looking for the perfect time to add it into his tip jar. After he finishes up a particularly rousing rendition of “Mr. Saturday Night,” she shakily rises and drops the five into the mostly-empty jar.

A Reading Terminal employee moves through the area, straightening chairs and evening out the rows of tables. She notices a particularly dirty one and shouts to a coworker to come over and wipe it down. The listening woman turns her head and glares at her, hoping that the dirty look will have the power to return the space to the concert hall she has created in her mind.

Looking around the space again, I realized that while most of the folks seated in ones and twos at the tables aren’t actively listening to the music, it seems to be having a subconscious effect. Writing utensils are tapped in rhythm and the visible stress that the business man across from me carried when he sat down seemed to fade. I am reminded of the magic of live music and feel particularly fortunate to have experienced that reminder while at the Market.

I met Anna as she dug through a mound of packed pea pods. She had a slightly prickly look about her, as if she might not be interested in talking, but as soon as she understood that I wasn’t trying to take advantage of her, she relaxed and started to tell me stories about her life and her attachment to the Market.

Since moving to Philadelphia from the Ukraine in 1950 at the age of 24, she has shopped at the Market regularly. Now that she’s retired, Anna stops in almost every day to hunt for bargains on fresh vegetables. She told me that Iovine’s and OK Lee often compete with each other, so if one lowers a price a bit, the other will respond by making their prices five or ten cents lower on the same item. That’s when she swoops in and snatches up the bargain.

“I save ten cents here and ten cents there, and it makes a difference. The prices of everything else keep going up, up. I have to save someplace.”

When I asked her what she liked to cook, she patted my arm and leaned in, as if to protect a big secret from the prying ears around us. “I’m not a fancy cooker. I eat meat very rarely. Vegetables, lots of vegetables. That’s the secret to staying healthy!”

She jabbed the arm with her finger then, to emphasis her point. She cooks her vegetables quickly, in a little olive oil with lots of garlic and onions, but always making sure that they aren’t too crunchy, as her digestion can’t handle that anymore. She admonished me not to cook vegetables in water, because all the vitamins rinse away when you drain them.

After instructing me on her method of cooking, she adjusted the fishing hat she was wearing over her short, gray hair and said, “You’re young.  Follow my advice.  Eat vegetables and stay away from fried foods.”  I assured her that I ate quite a lot of veggies and that I would continue to do so (I made no promises about the fried foods though).

Anna was fascinating to talk to, because she had definite opinions and didn’t hesitate sharing them. When she was 15 years old, World War II had broken out and she was enlisted into the forced labor movement in the Ukraine.  She told me about coming to America when she was 24 with her four-year-old son.  She said that she always called it her “milk and honey country” and that she still thinks that it is the best country in the whole world.  She is firmly opposed to the war in Iraq, which she feels is very different from World War II.  She hates how people with children and families are dying for nothing.

After 15 minutes of non-stop talking, blocking the display of pea pods at OK Lee’s, she took a deep breath in and said, “I’ve bored you enough.  I should finish my shopping and go home.”  I thanked her for her time, we shook hands and she went on her way.  Hopefully I’ll run into her again soon, as I think she has many more interesting stories to tell.

Monday afternoon I didn’t get over to the Market until nearly 4 o’clock. It’s amazing how the energy of the space changes once the lunch rush is over on the weekdays. It becomes a place where people can sit quietly over a cup of coffee (try it iced from Old City Coffee, I had it today and was instantly smitten) or a newspaper or a laptop.

After a quick circuit of the market, I centered in on three kids sitting around a table in the Center Court. One had a notebook spread out in front of her, the other two (who you can see above) were just hanging out and talking. I interrupted them with my standard, “Hi, can I bug you for just a second speech?” while I pulled up a chair (I find people have a harder time saying no if I’m already sitting down). They were up for talking, so I stayed in the seat and started asking questions.

They introduced themselves as Jay (on the left), John (on the right) and Cindy (who didn’t want her picture taken). Marketing majors at Temple, all three are going to be heading into their senior years this fall. Cindy is the reason they hang out in the Market, she works at one of the prepared food stands and occasionally is able to pass a little free food along to her friends.

She’s been working at the Market for more than a year and a half and said she enjoys the people she meets. She once met a professional marathon runner who had come to the Market to load up on pasta before a race and swears that there is a judge who frequently comes in for lunch and makes a point of carrying a juror sticker around with him so that he can get the 10% discount.

John remembered walking into the men’s room one afternoon to discover a man shaving his beard at the sink with a pocket knife. Realizing that it wasn’t getting the job done, John told him to wait and ran out to get him a disposable razor so that he could finish the shave more effectively and less painfully.

At this point, the conversation devolved a bit. We talked about the difference between the words effect/affect and invincible/invisible and then Jay started asking me questions about the story project and what I was doing in school. He liked the idea of talking to people with a specific location as the point of initial conversation and thought that it would be cool to do something similar with the different neighborhoods in the city. Maybe when this project is done…

Cindy, John and Jay, I hope I see you all around the Market again sometime soon! (I promise to try the chocolate covered potato chips soon).