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Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

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Walking up Eighth Street, I find myself looking straight ahead at the Soulard Farmers Market.

It is time to consummate my date with Soulard.
I walk into the market for the first time and face a pair of butcher shops. The selection of meats is paradigmatically different from what I saw at Shop 'n Save this morning. These are the extra parts, the soup parts, the sort of stuff that Native Americans thought of when they were trying to make use of every last bit of the sacred buffalo.

I snake through a few more shops and end up at the door of a spice shop. One whiff and I'm hooked.

"Can I help you, sir?" The middle-aged woman behind the counter senses a sale to a yuppie.

I reveal that I am a spice-shop novice, stunned by the avalanche of fragrances.

"Until about a month ago," she says, "I was working at a restaurant and would come home every night not being able to stand the way I smelled like grease. But now when I come home, I smell great."

On the way out, I sniff again, and I believe her.
Another shop offers hot dogs and chips, but it seems almost sacrilegious in this temple of freshness, so I hurry along to the produce row.

I imagine a huge place such as Farmers Market in Los Angeles is more impressive than the Soulard Farmers Market, but I don't care. I know immediately that I am walking in on an ancient tradition that, here in St. Louis, has miraculously survived the supermarkets and warehouse food barns and 24-hour get-whatever-you-want-whenever-you-want food palaces. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the food palaces, but now, here in Soulard, I stand in produce paradise.

I'm the hunter-gatherer, the primary grocery shopper in our family, so I know my produce prices. Ten navel oranges for a buck? Sheesh, it cost twice that much at the supermarket. Good-looking bananas at 25 cents a pound? Just as cheap as Aldi, and riper to boot. And here lies a huge tray of plums for only $3. So this is what cousin Cindy has been up to! I mentally begin to flagellate myself for taking so long to arrive in the treasure trove wherein I stand.

Looking at the leathery, lined faces of many of the merchants, I bring to bear on myself that wondrous ability to feel guilty. I can't enjoy this without paying for it. I have to buy something.continued on next page continued from previous page

I snag 10 oranges for a George Washington. Down the next row I get a pound of green seedless grapes for 95 cents. They were $1.69 at the grocery store.

A content-looking merchant catches my eye. Behind a variety of fruits and vegetables stands 43-year-old Tony, a 30-year veteran of the market.

Tony says that he gets a lot of his produce from the wholesale market on the near North Side. But you can only buy by the case at the North Side market. Tony also gets some of his produce from local farmers he knows.

"A lot of customers like to buy stuff that is homegrown," Tony says.
But there are fewer customers these days.
"This place isn't as busy as it used to be," Tony says. "I remember when you'd come in here on a Saturday morning at 6 and there would hardly be room to walk. We'd be sold out by noon and out of here by 1 or 2. Nowadays, we might not sell out until 4 or 5 on a Saturday."

But it still gets busy in the summer, Tony says.
"This time of year you can come in early on a Saturday and not worry about the crowds. But when summer comes, the best time to shop is on a Friday."

I begin to walk away, tucking that piece of information into my memory. Then guilt, compassion or whatever it is raises its persistent head, and I turn back to Tony and say: "How about a couple of grapefruit?"

For 50 cents I buy a pair of ruby-reds and a good feeling.
Around the corner I groan aloud when I see that the Golden Delicious apples are 50 cents a pound, nearly 20 cents less than I paid this morning at the supermarket.

The young woman behind the stand scolds: "Why did you do that if you were going to come to Soulard?" I didn't know I was going to do this, I answer. It won't happen again, I think.

I survive the brief shaming and emerge from the market quite proud of myself. For $2.45, I carry away a bulging bag of Vitamin C and a clear conscience.

This trip to the Soulard Farmers Market has been sacred and sensual. I'll be back.

Unfinished Business
A block from the market sits Trinity Lutheran Church. I think that it's a good time to call on the German-Lutheran Mafia to fill me in on the beat of the street.

Carrying around a bag of fruit, I imagine that I look like one of the street people to which the good church folk minister. I stand at the door and knock. No answer.

But then a woman pulling out of the alley in her car cautiously rolls down her window. "Can I help you?" It strikes me that this is the third time I have heard that phrase this afternoon in Soulard. First at Norton's, then in the spice shop -- places where you would expect customer service -- but now the church secretary is offering her service.

The pastor won't be back for another hour, she says, but the outreach director might be back in 15 minutes or so. He can probably help you.

Fine, I think. I'll stroll around this block, see who else offers to help me, then return to the Lutherans.

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