It has now been months since I’ve posted on this blog, a situation that saddens me but is unavoidable right now. Soon after starting this project, I started writing for Slashfood and working on my thesis and couldn’t keep up the pace of regular visits to Reading Terminal to talk to people and collect their stories. It’s a project I’d like to come back to at sometime in the future, but right now I have to focus on the writing that pays and will get me my masters degree.

Here’s hoping for renewed energy for this endeavor in 2008.

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!

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.

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.

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.