After the segment about this project aired (scroll down to the player) on 6abc a couple of weeks ago, I got a bunch of emails from folks who visited the blog because of it. One was from a Temple film student named Matt who made a short film about the Market during his freshman year and for whom the Market has become a place of relaxation and escape. Here’s some of his story, in his own words.

I was very quickly inspired by the terminal. I was there once before I started school for a big comic convention. My brother and I went for lunch on a busy Saturday and were completely overwhelmed by the variety of scents, sights, and sounds. After wandering for 45 minutes I finally settled on a roast beef sandwich from Di Nic’s (any of their sandwiches I are really great), and I was hooked.

For my freshman year I had to do a video project where we document a place in Philly that was important to us or that we think is unique, then shy why we love it. The terminal was the first thing that came to mind.

The resulting video, my first effort as a student went over well and I’m pretty happy with it. I think the character of the terminal really comes through. I tried to show the chaos of the terminal and compare it to that of the city. Then I wanted to express that despite its crazyness, the terminal still manages to draw people together.

You can check it out here.

Needless to say, what was once unbelievably overwhelming is now a place for me to go to relax. I go every week, sometimes multiple times a week for eating and shopping, and that is how it will be until I’m no longer in Philly or dead. Whichever comes first.

I also have to say that Fischer’s Pretzels are the best I’ve ever had anywhere, the same can be said for Bassett’s Ice Cream, Bee Natural got me hooked on honey, and what would honey be without some tea (co Tea Leaf).

Thanks Matt, for the email and the film!

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.

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.

When I first moved to Philadelphia, my world was small. I lived at one end of Center City and worked on the other end, a distance that spanned about 13 blocks on the same street. I didn’t have a car and didn’t know much about how Septa worked outside of my small downtown bubble.

In those days, I shopped at Reading Terminal Market because it was within walking distance from my apartment and I could get everything there that I needed for a week’s worth of meals.  However, I had never shopped at a place like it before.  Growing up in Portland, OR we stuck mostly to grocery stores, with an occasional stop at a Farmer’s Market.

I was also drawn to the Market because of how it was different from what I had known.  It was foreign to me in a way that made it feel magical.  I loved that my sandwich meats got wrapped in paper and that when I bought a slab of salmon it was plucked out of the case and deposited in a plastic bag.  I had never experienced meat, poultry or fish that wasn’t stamped with a “sell by” date and pre-packaged in styreofoam and shrink wrap.

During that first year, every couple of months my cousins Winnie and David would call early on a Saturday morning and tell me to meet them at the Market in an hour.  We’d have breakfast at the Down Home Diner or the Dutch Eating Place and then we’d wander.  David wouldn’t last long before finding a seat, but Winnie and I would walk every aisle.  She’d stop at a counter and ask me if I’d tried this Amish specialty or that exotic piece of fruit.  Whether the answer was yes or now, she’d call someone over and buy whatever it was that she’d spotted, enough for both of us to take some home.

Why do you shop at Reading Terminal?