Reading Terminal Market Philadelphia

My first step through the doors I don’t remember. Something told me to walk into this building. My feet knowing this place was where my tongue, nose, and stomach wanted to go. But once inside fresh produce caught my eye. A plethora of organic produce and a selection of mushrooms to put Whole Foods to shame. Not able to lug any of this fresh stuff back to Connecticut with me I looked for dry goods. Mushrooms my obvious choice, dried morels and wood ear mushrooms, the beginning of a dish I started to compile in my head as I strolled through this food labyrinth (that should finally come together in the next few weeks).

I first though the market was only a few eateries, a butcher, a produce section, and a fish market. Then as I passed the coffee stall the reality of the markets size came into view. It contained dozens of stalls and stores containing everything from candy, to cookbooks, to a beer garden. Stalls run by heavily tattooed women and beautiful Amish girls.

Meat prepared by men in full view of shoppers and sold on brown paper like meat should be.

A recent addict and amateur pickler I had to try some Amish pickles.

Amish goodies galore.

At the back edge of one of the fish markets I saw a middle aged man hunched over a paper basket full of empty oyster shell wiping his mouth. No look of nausea on his face and his skin still a natural hue I figured oysters were a great addition to my near empty stomach, an excess of coffee and a muffin being my only food all day.

I got six dry slightly fowl smelling oysters of mysterious origin absent of any juice or the condiment that I falsely believe to be slightly sanitizing, hot sauce. But without fear I slurped them down. I have yet to feel sick, knock on wood.

I saw fish and nasty bits I didn’t even know existed. I think, though it may have been a dream, that one of the Asian fishmongers even had blowfish for sale.

Before I got to lost in my heaven I stepped outside to find exactly where the bus station was in relation to the market. As I returned outside the market just next to the sign was a one man band, his harmonica calling me back in.

Also hidden in the maze of shops was a herb and spice store. I hoped to find an ingredient that I have only read about in books; fennel pollen. But sadly did not have it, even though the clerk told me a lot of people have been asking for it lately. I throughly enjoyed though how the spices were in little baggies. The clerk also looked like he had other dried herbs in similar bags.

A huge fan of honey I was blown away by the selection. Slightly scared of the amount of choices I first went with the fairly pedestrian choice of wild flower. Then I went for the weird. A honey so dark that I could not see my fingers on the other side. It was called Smartweed. A smart choice? Not sure it was fairly bitter once I tried it. Not sure what I will do with it. It could make an interesting component in a marinade or brine.

Within this Mecca of food I was lost in the most exciting of ways. Then I looked up to see a sign made of cardboard and marker bearing two of my favorite words “Used Books.”

Among the tight high stacks were topics ranging from freemasonry to witchcraft. Then I saw what I was looking for, “Cookbooks.” Though only a few books on the shelf, one caught my eye. Its faded dust cover giving away its birth date, 1976. It was “The Complete Book of Preserving” and for an amateur pickler like myself a must have. So holding my treasure I looked around the ten by five foot shop in search of the clerk who was no where to be found. Then I turned around to find a elderly black man with a cardboard and marker badge pinned to his hat reading “Clerk” behind me, as if a ghost.

He did not speak a word. Just stared at me so I broke the silence and asked, “How much for this book?”

He took it from my hand and flipped to the inner page and pointed to where it was marked $3 without a word.

Surprised by the price I asked again, “Three dollars?” Holding three fingers in the air. Thinking the poorly scribbled pencil mark may actually read $13 or $30. Without a word he slowly raised his arthritis ridden hand and struggled to hold up three fingers to match mine.

Without hesitation I forked over my three dollars when he finally spoke his only words to me. “Need a bag?” With my backpack fulled to the brim with Amish delights I had no room for this large book. So we slowly made  our way across the tiny shop to grab a bag and I was back into the crowd of food stalls.

I had not found fennel pollen but I had discovered a new diamond in the rough.

Enjoying the sound of bluegrass music played near by I sat down with my Styrofoam container of Chinese food outside of the Beer Garden for lunch. Just taking in the whole experience.

Finishing my stay in Philly I sat down at the bar of the Beer Garden to enjoy an indigenous beverage, a pint of Yuengling, on a broken stool in a plastic cup along with all the other day drinkers. The bar hood consisting of a model train track held up by what appeared to be materials using in fencing and decorated with metallic streamers. My bartenders two big haired middle aged women, with a tooth missing hear and there. Day time soap operas playing on a magically suspended flat screen TV over the bar. The whole situation strangling satisfying.

An unhealthy coffee junkie I had to buy a bag of artisan coffee before I left so I made my last stop the coffee stall. As I shoved my nose into a bag of organic fair trade Ugandan coffee beans I was greeted by the sound of African drums and the midday sun. Then off to catch my bus home.

At the end of it all here it what I walked away with: two types of honey, salted fat back, fig preserve, beef jerky, a book, two types of dried mushrooms, cappuccino peanut butter, and coffee beans.

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