Observations from Reading Terminal Market

Plus homemade food makes the newsletter for the first time!

Nov 22, 2023

Observations from Reading Terminal Market, a week before Thanksgiving:

It’s about 12:30 pm, I stand outside of one of the entrances on Arch St, between 11th & 12th. I’m waiting for a podcast to end before heading inside. I watch about a dozen people make their ways through the doors, one direction or another. The podcast ends, I take my airpods out and make sure to move the couple of items in my outer jacket pockets to the inner pocket. I pause, reflecting on the fact that I’m not actually worried about being pick-pocketed, this is still a habit picked up from spending time in cities and traveling as a child/teen. I open the door and try to take in the smell as I walk inside. Nothing distinct.

The bathroom line is surprisingly short. There is a worker cleaning the hand sinks one-by-one, as they become open. He is wiping the third sink from the left. No one wants to wash their hands in the sink next to him. As if it would be offensive to use the sink he had just cleaned. It smells like lemon pledge.

I link with my Dad and Nonna as they arrive. It’s a surprise to her, and she’s in such disbelief we hug twice before reality sets in. This is entirely my fault for not visiting or calling much since the end of summer. I’m thankful that my dad has set this up so well. There are no smells, only smiles.

We make our way to the center seating/dining area before splitting up to pick our lunches. Nonna in line at The Original Turkey, DiNic’s on my mind, but I wander with my dad for a moment in case something else calls to me. It’s probably been about a full year since the last time I was in the Reading Terminal, and I barely recognize any of the stands. Not that I have spent any significant time inside since La Davisa (RIP) closed. I am far from a picky eater, but I am picky about where to spend my money on food. Most of the cases look wholly unappetizing. An endless bouquet of steam trays simmering under cold fluorescent light and stained with a red tint from all the neon. Distracted, I look up at the ductwork and ceiling fans. All I notice is the amalgamation of smells where I’m craving one, any smell to make my mouth water.

The line at DiNic’s has withered from 15+ people to about 4 as we finish our lap, so I take my spot at the back of the line, content with a shorter wait for what I used to consider my favorite roast pork in the city. The thought of broccoli rabe is mouth watering.

As I’m handed my sandwich, my sister finds me, the last of the day’s surprise visitors. We find Nonna back at a table, she’s managed to grab half of a four top where the other two people seem nearly finished eating. More hugs and joyous smiles ensue. I take a seat while my sister goes off to try and find lunch for herself. It’s fully packed, I’m overstimulated to the moon, yet I try to take inventory of what’s going on around us. A symphony of people eating, people waiting for tables, people clearing tables, people sliding chairs around to accommodate their group – mostly families, numerous attendees of some conference going on, one group of 8 friends seemingly hopeless trying to find a space for all of them to dine together. I would count four separate field trips by the end of the visit. There is a presumably homeless man sleeping at the table to my right. After about ten minutes a security worker shows up to wake him and tell him he must move. The strangers, at the table with us, sit and talk for far too long after they’ve finished eating. It feels as they live at this table, they might never leave. Miraculously, standing to leave in almost perfect timing as my dad arrives back with his food.

“Is it as good as you remembered?” Nonna asks about a third of the way into my sandwich. “No,” I respond, “it’s good, but drier than I remember.” We all eat, and I mildly dissociate, again watching everyone around us. I think about the joy that can be sparked by a random solo trip to the market, where I can wander aimlessly, lost among the masses. No timeline, no long shopping list, no worrying about finding a table for four, definitely not a week before thanksgiving when the crowd is near peak. A visit where I let the waves of the market wash over me and take me with the flow. I remind myself of a pre-thanksgiving visit a handful of years ago, also with Nonna: turkey pepperoni and eggs from Godshall’s are the must-haves for her, a few veggies from Iovine’s and we are back outside, no lunch, no fighting for tables, no counting the field trips.

We finish eating and sit for far too long talking, until we collectively realize the right thing to do is to relinquish our table to the next group, likely waiting how we waited a mere thirty minutes sooner. As we’re starting the bit of shopping needed, my sister offers a piece of a soft pretzel she scooped up without any of us noticing. After one little bite, the majesty of the market is back in my belly. All I can think is that it’s maybe the best soft pretzel I’ve ever had, and I immediately have her lead me to the Miller’s Twist stand where she got it because I need a whole one for myself. Buttery, soft, fresh. We continue shopping and distinct smells start to find their way into my nose: the pork sausage in the case at Giunta’s, the peppering of big cuts of beef to be turned into Pastrami at Hershel’s.

I am lucky to catch two interactions too important to not document:

A burly man with a speckled beard, wearing an Eagles trucker cap, arguing with a counter worker at By George. “We LOST the super bowl, someone has to lose but that doesn’t mean somebody won it.”
Two women explaining funnel cake to a third woman, presumably from outside the country, who doesn’t quite seem to understand but looks excited nonetheless.

It’s been about an hour and a half, indoors at street level, but so far removed from daylight it feels like you’ve left all of the real world behind and lived a full lifetime. We say our goodbyes, and I feel lucky – and at the same time surprised and totally expected – that ~~I can still find~~ the magic of this place can still find me.

Stuff For Your Mouth:

Don’t go to the Southampton Spa for the food. Go for the shvitz. It’s enlightening and reinvigorating. If you’re doing it right, you’ll work up an appetite. The pork shish kebab (top right, below) rules supreme among the dozen or so menu items I’ve tried. It’s the only item (besides some very necessary french fries) that I feel compelled to order each and every visit.

We have a newsletter first! Homemade food making the cut: some pasta (bougie italian fusilli) with a sauce of ground pork, caramelized onion, a whole lot of garlic, roasted delicata squash, and lacinato kale. Topped with crispy garlic and lots of fresh herbs. This is not a recipe blog so send an email if you want more info on the cooking process!

Stuff For Your Ears:

I haven’t really dug into much new music this month, so I want to throw it back to October of 2013 and celebrate the 10 year anniversary of the Wildewoman album by Lucius. I still love this album, and it has found its way back into my rotation after I received a promotional email from the band celebrating the anniversary in mid October.