Blackstone
So, I finally went to the Blackstone St market (Historic Haymarket) in Boston. I'm ashamed to say I've lived here over 3 years without visiting it, but now that I have, I hope it will become a regular part of my weekly travels. It's one of those small places that reminds you that humanity is still here, not progressing so fast as most would have you believe, and that the U.S. is not so far removed from the more ancient rooted countries of the world. We still have bustling outdoor markets. The FDA has not shut down every food tradition of our past quite yet.
There are many things I enjoy about the market, some of which I'm sure are the reasons others avoid it like the plague. It is crowded, and noisy, and anything but hygienic. English is not the primary language I hear as I wandered the stalls, being jostled left and right by the more serious shoppers, sidestepping around the ogling tourists. There is an eclectic mix of sounds, and even where I catch English words, they are accented by middle-eastern, Spanish, or Asian sounding syllables. Many of the merchants shout and heckle you, some even reaching out to touch your arm and draw you into a sale. Some just chant a never-ending drawl of phrases with the repeated intonation of someone who has repeated this song so many times as to make it utterly meaningless to their own ears. Four apples for a dollar! Any four apples. Four for a dollar. Apples! Apples! Four apples for a dollar! And repeat, over and over, the background rhythm of the marketplace. Choose your apples carefully, however: on close inspection you'll find many are bruised or far past their prime, picked under-ripe and over-waxed, stored for too long before being passed off at a discount to some enterprising merchant. That is the price you pay for low prices.
But that is also the challenge, the joy of shopping at such markets. It requires involvement, attention. Go in to a Whole Foods or a Wegmans, and you put your trust in the company. You expect all the apples to be perfect, so you don't have to search through the pile for the right one. Doing so would be frowned upon, even, so disrespectful and untrusting of the grocer. But not at the market. At the market it's up to you- it is nobody's fault but your own if you return home to find your apples are rotten, your choices unwise. That's part of the game, merchant vs. customer, one betting against the other to get the better part of the bargain. If you're good, you know what to look for and how to handle it, then you get a good deal. The cheapest produce you can find in Boston. When I go to the market, I know what to look for, what I want and when I'll use it and how long it will last. And, perhaps, there are enough tourists, enough shoppers who were careless or hurried or just didn't look quite close enough, that the merchant doesn't mind that I got the best of him today. As long as I don't take too long pinching the apples.
There are many things I enjoy about the market, some of which I'm sure are the reasons others avoid it like the plague. It is crowded, and noisy, and anything but hygienic. English is not the primary language I hear as I wandered the stalls, being jostled left and right by the more serious shoppers, sidestepping around the ogling tourists. There is an eclectic mix of sounds, and even where I catch English words, they are accented by middle-eastern, Spanish, or Asian sounding syllables. Many of the merchants shout and heckle you, some even reaching out to touch your arm and draw you into a sale. Some just chant a never-ending drawl of phrases with the repeated intonation of someone who has repeated this song so many times as to make it utterly meaningless to their own ears. Four apples for a dollar! Any four apples. Four for a dollar. Apples! Apples! Four apples for a dollar! And repeat, over and over, the background rhythm of the marketplace. Choose your apples carefully, however: on close inspection you'll find many are bruised or far past their prime, picked under-ripe and over-waxed, stored for too long before being passed off at a discount to some enterprising merchant. That is the price you pay for low prices.
But that is also the challenge, the joy of shopping at such markets. It requires involvement, attention. Go in to a Whole Foods or a Wegmans, and you put your trust in the company. You expect all the apples to be perfect, so you don't have to search through the pile for the right one. Doing so would be frowned upon, even, so disrespectful and untrusting of the grocer. But not at the market. At the market it's up to you- it is nobody's fault but your own if you return home to find your apples are rotten, your choices unwise. That's part of the game, merchant vs. customer, one betting against the other to get the better part of the bargain. If you're good, you know what to look for and how to handle it, then you get a good deal. The cheapest produce you can find in Boston. When I go to the market, I know what to look for, what I want and when I'll use it and how long it will last. And, perhaps, there are enough tourists, enough shoppers who were careless or hurried or just didn't look quite close enough, that the merchant doesn't mind that I got the best of him today. As long as I don't take too long pinching the apples.
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