The rains last Sunday morning not only washed away hillsides and probably closed PCH but also forced my farmer's market to not be open for business. Which was a drag; as I had just run out of my Merlot-induced plum preserves. You can't get those at Von's. Not to be snobbish - but - what can you get at Von's?
I used to be fearful of farmer's markets. Never before had I shopped for produce where there were no aisles. There were corridors. There were lanes. There were no labeled aisles. Finding kale was pure happenstance. Also; the vendors had more dirt under their fingernails than Farouk, the guy that works at the Jiffy Lube on Pico.
I wondered, perhaps too much, about how some of the booths actually turned a profit. No one seemed to be buying the mango-scented candles. The gentleman selling the tiny Asian trees looked depressed. Kettle corn? Are you serious? How do these folks pay for their kids to go to Harvard-Westlake? I was tempted to ask the chef at the Peruvian ovens about his feelings on this matter. He was machete-loaded and not in the mood. I asked him if he had any chili; or did I have to find a Chile chef? His eyes showed no sign of appreciation.
I still don't know why regular markets can't have the same stuff that is in these farmer's markets. It would make life simpler. Especially on a rainy day. Don't say Whole Foods or Trader Joe's. Not the same. Those establishments have aisles.
My bucket list had never included socializing with vendors. Buying roughage had not been a top priority. But, once I got married, my feelings about these open air food theaters changed. The wife took me by the hand and told me not to fear the parsley choices. That it was okay to buy fish from the fish monger. I had always thought that the "fish monger" sounded like a character from an old Charlie Chan movie. I quickly learned that the prices were cheaper and most of the time the tuna and salmon were better than Gelson's. I also learned, that if you want your marriage to continue, to never purchase yellowtail. That's the last time I plan on being spontaneous.
We have three farmer's markets that we get to. Let's start with the one in Beverly Hills. Attended mostly by scary frequenters. Definitely not an attractive crowd. Sweat suits and leathered complexions. Think multi-Larry Kings with pull carts. The market usually has a petting zoo. This is where I spend some time and get stares from parents thinking that I am a pedophile. Well, I'm not. I have however; named the duck Quacky and the pot-bellied pig Earl. We usually get seduced into buying way too many fruits and vegetables. Most of them find their way to the garbage after changing color. Sorry, we don't compost. The main reason I go to this particular farmer's market is for the rhubarb something-or-other from the Rockenwager's bakery. My wife gets some phallic cheese thing from the same over-priced bakery. Batteries not included.
Next up, the Larchmont farmer's market. In, surprisingly, Larchmont Village. A made up suburb of L.A.. This farmer's market is smaller in a claustrophobic-like-way. Everybody seems to have a latte or mocha-something. Kid friendly. Pet friendly. Frankly, too friendly. I bought some beautiful bath soaps for my wife there. They cleaned her up rather nicely and I'm sure corroded the pipes in our tub. Never buy soap that is right next to a booth selling organic jerky.
Our local farmer's market is at La Cienega and 18th St.. Not pretentious. Borderline third world. This is where our fish guy puts up his shingle. He says he goes to the docks and gets his fish fresh every day. I questioned him on what dock he hung out at to get his New Zealand salmon. He took the fifth and then took our money. Sometimes there is a woman that looks like a cross between Sally Struthers and Chris Farley. She entertains the shoppers by singing some Joni Mitchell. No one seemed to be throwing coins her way. Rightfully so.
Time and marriage have now allowed me to embrace these farmer's markets. No more fears. Trepidations. I don't feel silly asking about arugula. I've been making better grape selections. I'm still not comfortable enough to joke around with the Peruvian guy, but overall I now consider myself a functioning farmer's marketeer. In fact I can hardly wait to go back this next weekend, weather permitting, and get my Merlot-induced plum preserves and say hi to Quacky and Earl.
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