Back to the Market

I went to the Ferry Plaza Farmers’ Market this weekend.

That my not sound like much of a statement, but I assure you it is. I’ve not been to the Farmers’ Market in more than a year; in the past three years I’ve only been two or three times.

It’s not that I don’t like Farmers’ Markets, I do. I love them. I love to wander the stalls, chat with the vendors, smell the produce. I love to see fruits and vegetables I’m not familiar with, and to be able to ask how to best prepare them. I love that bunches of carrots and beets come with their leaves still attached, perhaps a smudge of dirt as well. I love the feeling that the money I hand over is being taken by people actually involved in the growing of my food. I love the seasonality of the market—how it connects me with what is ripe and worth eating now.

I grew up going to the Farmers’ Market in Marin, though perhaps the more accurate statement is that the market and I grew up together. While most of the produce of my early childhood came from my mother’s large organic garden, when I was in fifth grade we moved away from West Marin and into a house with no room for a garden. Around that time the Farmers’ Market in Marin was just starting up (the one at the Civic Center) and my mother went every week. I went with her. And later, I went by myself.

My senior year of high school I was often on my own, my brother away as an exchange student, my mother frequently traveling. One of my favorite things to do during this time was to wake up on Sunday and go to the market. While my friends were still sleeping off the excess of our Saturday night, I trolled the stalls, stocked up on produce, and headed home with shopping bags bursting. Back at the house I put on a favorite album of Beatles tunes and made raspberry pancakes on the venerable Wedgewood, using a recipe in our ancient edition of The Joy of Cooking (1953). The pancakes were thin and the raspberries crumbled into the batter, infusing each bite with sweet berry flavor. My friends eventually dragged themselves from bed and came over for breakfast. I was happy as could be, in my mother’s sunny kitchen, making market fresh food for my friends.



When I moved to San Francisco in 2000, the Ferry Building was under renovation and the Farmers’ Market had been relocated to a parking lot a few blocks away. I went nearly every week, often meeting a friend for Saturday morning market strolls. I had recently moved back to the Bay Area, after a decade away, and I couldn’t believe how good California produce was. I got to know some of the farmers and food purveyors, exchanging small talk with them each week. I loved bringing my out of town guests to the market, my favorite local treat. One April weekend, after twenty minutes at the market, my friends Yasir and David swore they were leaving London and moving to San Francisco. I was so proud—of my market, of San Francisco, and of my friends for being so astute. On a sunny Saturday morning, sitting on the grassy knoll after market shopping, there wasn’t anywhere else on this planet that I wanted to be.

But when the market moved back to the Ferry Building in 2003, I stopped going.

I did go a couple of times. The market was thronged with people, the vendors in different order, and I couldn’t find some of the farmers I used to buy from. The Ferry Building was stunning, the renovation an unmitigated success, but it didn’t feel like my market any longer. I liked the funkiness of the temporary market. This new place was—and is—gorgeous, a temple to good and gourmet food, But it also felt a bit like culinary Disneyland, everything beautifully packaged for the consumer. I missed being able to feel the dirt around the edges.

With the move to the Ferry Building the market became less of an intimate experience for me. There were so many people—everyone and their dogs, quite literally—especially in the summer. It felt as if the market was almost a victim of its own success, as market goers jostled to get down packed aisles.* And because of the success, I felt a little less like I had to support the market. I knew they were going to make it without me. I continued to make the best shopping choices I could, but I figured my local, non-chain and cooperatively owned health food stores needed my support too.

There were also things happening in my life that kept me away from the market—I was in grad school and busy; I wasn’t cooking hardly at all; my student budget made gourmet indulgences an infrequent luxury. And then there was the problem of bread.

I had been seeing a naturopath, trying to sort out some befuddling health issues. My doctor suggested I cut out gluten from my diet, thinking I might be allergic to it. This I did, but it meant I couldn’t eat most breads. I especially couldn’t eat the bread from my favorite bakers: Della Fattoria.

This was probably the death knell to my market going. If you don’t understand this, then perhaps you’ve never had the bread that the Webber Family bakes at Della Fattoria. Crisply crusted with a moist center and slightly smoky flavor from their wood burning ovens, this is bread to write home about, to move from London to San Francisco for. This is the bread they serve in my version of heaven (and also, apparently, at The French Laundry). While there are many delicious gluten-free foods, to go to the market and not be able to pick up a loaf of their crunchy polenta bread was an awful thought. I did go a couple of times, I even stopped by to chat with Kathleen and Ed Webber, because I think they are truly delightful people, but to have to forgo the bread was a heartbreaker (palatebreaker?).



But in the recent months of my “born-again foodieism,” as a friend called it the other day, I knew I would be heading back to the market. Just the thought of the market has been tempting me—not to mention all the great market posts I’ve been reading in local food blogs. I’ve not had a Saturday morning free in several months, but this past Saturday was the day. Though the weather report forecasted rain (25 days of rain in March—can you give us a break already?) I decided to ride my bike. There were hints of blue peeping out between the clouds and grey and, after weeks of rain, I needed some fresh air.

I live on the opposite side of the city from the Ferry Building Market—another reason I haven’t been going often. Sometimes I daydream of a Farmers’ Market in Golden Gate Park that I could walk to from my house (Cookiecrumb, you’ve got the life), but for the time being it is a trek across the city for me.

If I am biking, I don’t mind the trek. The city unfolds in all her detail and variety, from the intricate decorations on restored Victorians in the leafy, tree lined streets of the Haight, to the cement grittiness and abandoned hope of panhandlers on 6th and Market Street. I rarely get the chance to interact with the city in this way. Working at home means I no longer spend much time on city streets. I no longer make this trek, from ocean to bay, on a daily basis.

I chose to ride down Market Street, not the fastest way to get anywhere but I wanted to experience this wide artery of the city, the closest thing San Francisco has to a main street. During the week the downtown area is thronged with office workers, but on weekends this part of the city is left to tourists and families from the suburbs, in town for shopping and dining. The street artists and musicians were out in full force, their melody a backdrop to the day.

Before I knew it I could see the tower of the Ferry Building, anchoring the eastern end of Market Street and the site of the Farmers’ Market. The bustle starts before the market these days, with craft stalls at the foot of Market Street. There was a school band playing and the feeling of a street fair. I couldn’t help but get excited about being back at the market. I locked up my bike, happy that I wasn’t having to deal with market parking (another fallout of its success), and amused that the bike next to mine sported a sticker proclaiming “my other car is a pair of hiking boots.” Then it was time to take the plunge into the market proper.



I passed the Rose Pistola stand, and the man selling delicious smelling roast chicken. “Look, Dad, rotisserie chicken!” exclaimed a girl of about eight (we start our budding gourmets early here in San Francisco). The stalls were out and bursting with fresh food and flowers. I wandered down the rows, comparatively uncrowded due to the threat of rain, and saw the beauty of the season’s produce on display—carrots, chard, kale, fava beans, asparagus, and artichokes.



I saw a vegetable I had never seen before, a cardoon (the long, stalk-like thing towards the rear of the photo above), at Mariquita Farms, and was told how to cook it. I tried a sample of batter fried asparagus, admired the small basil seedlings for sale, and ended up at exactly where I wanted to be: in front of the gorgeous bread offerings from Della Fattoria.



Ed Webber welcomed me back to the market. I don’t know that he really remembered me—it has been a few years since I was a regular customer—but he was just as friendly and gracious as he always has been. He told me the family had opened a café and patisserie in Petaluma about a year and a half ago (where have I been all this time?). He sold me a loaf of delicious polenta bread and promised to send my regards to Kathleen. I promised I would come visit the Petaluma shop next time I’m in the North Bay, something I am looking forward to.

In order to keep myself from nibbling away at the bread (I knew I had to keep it mostly intact so I could take a photo for you all to see) I treated myself to my favorite market breakfast and got in line at the stall for Cocina Primavera. The Primavera menu changes weekly, from huevos rancheros, to pork punuchos, ceviche tostadas, and fish tacos, but they always offer a variety of tamales. Although I was tempted by the roasted pumpkin and white cheddar tamale, my favorite breakfast is simpler, and not on the menu.

If you smile nicely when you order, the good folks behind the counter will fix you a plate of black beans, and tortillas, with a little queso blanco, fresh avocado, and some salsa. Now that may sound plain, but sometimes brilliance is to be found in the simplest ingredients prepared well. The beans are smooth, smoky, and full of flavor; the tortillas are made fresh on the spot, warm and soft; the salsa is piquant and sprightly; and the mellow avocado balances it all out. It’s perfection, on a paper plate.



With a full belly I strolled though the Ferry Building itself, where permanent vendors from Acme Bread, to Cowgirl Creamery, Michael Recchiuti Confections, Scharffen Berger Chocolates, Ciao Bella Gelato, Hog Island Oyster, Co., McEvoy Ranch Olive Oil, and many more, sell their wares.



The long hallway of the building, lit from above, always makes me feel a little like I’m in a church—a cathedral of good and well-crafted food. It makes me feel lucky to live in such a bountiful area, and glad that there are people taking the time to create and promote artisanal foods. In many cases these products preserve time-consuming and traditional methods of food preparation that might otherwise be lost.

It also makes me a little sad.

What I’m about to say may rub fans of the Ferry Building Market the wrong way. I certainly have nothing against it, I just wish it were accessible to more people. As I wander down the nave I can’t help thinking that there are people who do not have the ability to pay $18 for a piece of cheese, $36 for a bottle of olive oil. It doesn’t matter that it is the best cheese or olive oil they will ever taste. These wonderful products are out of reach for a good many people, and this makes me a little sad. I know it’s a complicated issue, too complex for me to try to tease apart right now, especially in a week of too much work, little sleep, and no extra brainpower. But it’s there, whenever I go to the market—the pleasure that all this exists, and a tinge of sadness that it’s not possible for everyone to partake.



A stand full of brilliant orange citrus, in front of the market, went a long way towards cheering me up again, and I marveled at the color and variety. Then I ducked into Sur La Table where, I must admit, I fondled the KitchenAid mixers (someday, my pretty, someday) and gawked at the truly amazing array of gorgeous cooking equipment.

But work was calling. I got back on my bike and rode back across the city, up the hills, towards the ocean. Thereby earning my pancakes and a slice or two of Della Fattoria goodness.

Will I be back to the market? You bet, probably next week.



FOR THE GOOD BREAD:
Della Fattoria
141 Petaluma Boulevard North, Petaluma, CA 94952
Tuesday thru Thursday and Saturdays 7am-5:30pm; Fridays 7am-9pm; Sundays 9am-3pm; closed Monday.
And at the San Francisco Ferry Plaza Farmers' Market on Saturday morning—but get there on the early side because they will sell out.

MARKET MORNING PANCAKES
Adapted from The Joy of Cooking (1953 edition).

These are no normal pancakes, which is good because I don’t like normal pancakes. I find them too heavy, they sit in my stomach like a lead ball. Unless I am backpacking or on a bike trip, I avoid pancakes completely. But these are lovely, thin and delicious. The original recipe calls them “French Pancakes,” and they are somewhere between a crepe and a pancake. I like them with raspberries. Blackberries are also an option, but blueberries would not work unless you cut them in pieces, and what would be the point of that?

3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp baking powder
2 tbs powdered sugar
2 eggs
2/3 cup milk
1/3 cup water
1/2 tsp vanilla
1/2 tsp grated lemon rind
1 cup fresh or frozen raspberries (or blackberries) broken up into smaller pieces
Drizzle of oil
Extra powdered sugar for topping

Sift flour and resift with additional dry ingredients. In a separate bowl beat eggs and add wet ingredients, except berries, mixing together until incorporated. Make a well in the dry ingredients and add the wet, stirring until smooth. Add berries and stir. The batter will be colored by the berries, that’s okay. Heat a medium pan and grease lightly with oil. With a measuring cup or ladle, pour about 1/2 cup of the batter onto the pan. When small bubbles appear on the edges, flip and cook on the other side. Makes 10-12 pancakes, enough for about 2 people.

Skip the maple syrup on these guys, it would overwhelm the delicate taste. I prefer them sprinkled with powdered sugar, perhaps a drizzle of lemon juice, then rolled up and eaten by hand.



*I know, I know, it’s less crowded early in the morning, I just can’t manage to wake up early on a Saturday. Early Sunday I can do, I’ve already had a day to sleep in, but early Saturday is a near impossibility for this night owl.