Recently, as I’ve talked to various people about the Market, I’ve started to realize that Reading Terminal is different for everyone. For some, it’s their local grocery store. For others, it’s a place to escape inclement or oppressive weather. It is a place to get a beer, eat a sandwich and do work outside of the home or office. Some people only go there once or twice a year, in accordance with a family tradition that dictates that you must buy your Thanksgiving turkey from Godshalls or your Easter cake from Termini Bros.

For me it has been a place where I could get fresh veggies, fish and poultry within an eight-block walk of my apartment. It’s been a place to film podcasts and to meet friends for breakfast. This summer it has become deeply familiar, and is feeling more and more like a second home.

What is the Market to you?

Last week, I had coffee with a guy I dated briefly nearly two years ago. Christian has occasionally followed the writing I do online, and, knowing that I’m collecting stories about Reading Terminal Market, told me about his experiences at the Beer Garden.

When he first mentioned it, I had to admit that I’ve never set foot inside the Beer Garden. There’s something about it that intimidates me. I feel comfortable in just about every other inch of public space in the Market, but the garden has a different energy about it. I’ve sat right out side of it, taken pictures of it, even walked up to the edge of entrance, but I don’t cross the threshold. Maybe it’s because I don’t drink much, or because I’m a female, or I just don’t feel comfortable going into bars by myself, but the beer garden doesn’t seem welcoming to me.

Christian has been working an overnight shift at a local hospital for the last handful of years. He gets off just about the time when the Market opens and so would often go down there directly after work, get an order of ribs from one of the Market stands and sit at the bar in the beer garden to eat and drink.

He told me that the same women have been working behind the bar there for years, and if they decide they don’t like you, your experience in the beer garden can be less than stellar. However, if they do like you, you’ll get a larger cup of beer and a stack of napkins to help keep down the mess of the ribs. The regulars even get their beer served in glass mugs with handles, the once in a while folks get disposable plastic cups.

I am convinced now that there are many good stories tucked away in the beer garden and so I’m going to need to gather my nerve, head in there and say hi.

Sometime last week, I got an email from a guy named Al who had stories to tell about Reading Terminal Market. Since this is something of an obsession for me, we made plans to meet up, so that he could share his stories.

I met him around 11 am this morning, in the small public square that is kitty-corner from the Market.  He is something of a professional Philadelphia booster (he works for the city Visitors’ Center, one thing among the many he does with his time) and so presented me with a pocket-sized map of the city, in case I ever needed a visual aid in order to help lost tourists.

Al grew up in Chinatown, just a few blocks from Reading Terminal, and so the Market played a large role in his childhood.  Walking into the building, we headed to the back, towards the area where the Amish merchants have their stalls (they are there Wednesday through Saturday).  He pointed to the long strip of counter that belongs to Beiler’s Bakery and told me that just about every Saturday while he was growing up, they’d come over here in the late afternoon.  They’d stand around and wait, until the magic moment when the Amish women who sold the breads, cakes and pies would announce that everything on the counter could be had for a single dollar.  His mom would then spring into action (with all the others who had been waiting for the bargain), buying up loaves of blueberry bread.

As he described the scene to me, I could almost see the people jostling each other, trying to pick out the best of the end-of-day baked goods and still get what their families needed for the week.

Anthony was leaning against the counter, his chin resting on his curled up fists, when I walked by. It was a quiet afternoon at the Market, so there weren’t many people asking about the steaks and chops in the case below him. I watched from a distance for a moment and then doubled back.

He grew up in South Philly and learned to cut meat when he got a job at the butcher shop around the corner from his house. He worked there for 12 years before they closed down. He looked for work for a while and three years ago a friend introduced to Harry (of Harry Ochs). He’s been at the Market ever since.

When I asked him why he does what he does, he looked at me as if he’d never once questioned the path his life has taken and simply said, “I just like cutting meat.”

His favorite cut of beef is the Delmonico. I asked him if he cooks and he responded with a shrug, “I have to, I’m single. No one else is going to do it for me.”

A customer stopped by the stand and he walked over to wait on her. She asked several questions about the different cuts of pork that were on the display, and he patiently answered her. She walked away without buying anything and he strolled back over to me. He told me that most of the customers he interacts with are terrific. A lot of them have been shopping at Harry Ochs for years longer than he’s worked there. I prodded a little, trying to dig some juicy tidbit about crazy clientele out of him. He thought a minute and mentioned that someone came in once and asked for whale meat. He shook his head at the memory, as if he still couldn’t believe the guy.

We chatted for a couple more minutes, about the places in the Market where he likes to get lunch (Spatero’s for hoagies, DiNic’s for roast pork), until suddenly business started to pick up. I thanked him for his time and walked on. A little while later, I passed by there again and he was back in the position where I had first seen him, leaning, chin perched on fists, staring out into the Market.