I’ve gotten several emails in recent days, asking me why I haven’t written anything about the Rick’s Steak issue that’s been the talk of the Market recently. I’ve intentionally stayed away from that issue because I haven’t felt like it fit within the framework of the project I’ve set up for myself. I want to capture what makes the Market great, not focus on the fighting and dischord. I realize that in some senses this struggle is a vital part of the story of the space, but I feel like I need to give it time to settle before I write about it.

In other news, those of you who check on this blog are aware that I’ve haven’t been posting a whole lot lately, despite the appearance on 6abc news recently promoting this project. A couple of weeks ago I got a blogging gig that actually pays me to post, which has been a blessing and a frustration. While it’s fun to make money blogging, it also has a way of zapping the energy I have for other writing projects. However, there are still great stories out there, and I hope to find some more time to tell them. Thanks for your patience and understanding as I find the correct balance.

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.

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.