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).

I spent the late afternoon today falling into interesting conversation after interesting conversation with people at the market. I met three Temple students who often hang out in Center Court, got an opportunity to hear the scoop on the new Foster’s store at 4th and Market from one of employees in the Market store and chatted with a young woman who recently moved to the area from San Francisco with her boyfriend. She described the move as a “geographic compromise” and is finding settling into Philly a bit challenging.

It was getting close to 6 pm as I wrapped up the last conversation in order to go home, but I’ve been dreaming of a green bean, tomato and basil salad, so with those last few minutes before closing, I swung through OK Lee’s produce stall. I picked up the beans and the basil (I already had the tomatoes) as well as a pineapple (which had been denuded of its leafy headdress) and a container of cut up melon.

The man at the west cash register quickly rung up my purchases, pressed total and started mumbling under his breath when the amount due was $6.66. The one thing I could clearly pick out was, “Customers don’t like that number.” He proceeded to subtract $.01 from the total, so that it no longer showed the numerical sign of the devil. He visibly relaxed when the total was altered, turned to me smiling and accepted my money. I handed him a small stack of $1 bills along with a few quarters. I tried to give him the extra penny that he had subtracted, but he refused, as if trying to deny that the screen had ever shown that offensive number.

Over the weekend, I got a note from Paul Steinke, the general manager of the market. He said,

Philbert, our bronze pig in the Reading Terminal Market’s Center Court, took in $1,086 during May from customers, merchants and staff. These funds will be sent to Washington, DC to help the merchants of Eastern Market, which was heavily damaged by fire on April 30th (see below). Click here for up-to-date information about what’s happening with Eastern Market.

Thanks to all who stopped by to donate their money to the effort!

This Sunday, June 3rd, Tootsie’s Salad Express (I never knew that Tootsie’s was included in their name until I got the announcement about this event) will be hosting a Pancake Breakfast to support Philadephia’s local firefighters and the Hepatitis C Awareness Fund.  You’ll be able to get your pancakes between the hours of 9 am and 2 pm.

I’ve been told that sometime that day, the Market management will hopefully have a tally of how much they raised to benefit the displaced merchants from Washington, D.C.’s fire-ravaged Eastern Market.  All of the donations placed in the bank beneath Philbert the Pig (who lives in Center Court) during the month of May are being donated to the Eastern Market cause.