Flash non-fiction
Viva la revolución
Pies, sandwiches, nuts, scales, salumi, biscotti, queues, tasters, offers, fruits, colors. An apple, a jute basket, a pair of towels, different sizes of wooden spoons.
I close my eyes and imagine the people walking up and down the isles like blood cells following its imprinted destination. No one really knows where they are heading to but stopping for too long could clog the narrow lane incurring a collapse somewhere.
Amidst the chaos of miscellaneous treats, a little boy tries to tie his shoes in front of the rag toys stall, a loud woman shouts to move on, thus a hungry man can’t hear which ticket number is being called at the pork sandwich deli, the vendor repeats four times without response, so a sly girl jumps in the queue and walks away with the sandwich in her hands.
Where am I?
In a market, every movement taken has its butterfly effect. Fixed in time and space but never static, like our circulatory system, a city market is a complex system. There is where opposites attract. Smells and sounds complement each other; varied colours, fragments and structures build the landscape; fast and slow paces control the flow. The air is rank, but familiar; the voices are loud but you can still have a chat; the prices are marked but to bargain is the law. There is an untold truth, a rhythm that must be followed.
This chaos cannot be understood by some but I get it. The job I do is also the type to be carried on through sweat, shouts and adrenaline. It is a labour of service, devotion and ultimate satisfaction. When I am in a market, my body seeks the experiences and encounters hidden in every corner. Eyes all open, I capture every scene. This must explain why in a distant past, when I used to work in front of a computer.
I’ve made some change selling banana cakes and coffee at a local food market in a small town I have lived. Those two are attractive by themselves, coffee and cake, but a cardboard with colorful capital letters and a few love hearts add some tenderness to it. Also opened a juice and empanadas stall once, which required a bit more logistic. The compotes, relishes and antepastos’ tent was the most complex. Overall, it is a job for anyone that has at least two skills: packing up your car with all the “stuff”, and smiling. Easier said than done, but what is the fun of a cold and sterille supermarket if you can’t discuss prices and decide by taste test which grape is worth buying? There is no grace, no romance. Whereas, you could leave the food markets with your belly full without spending one single penny if you wanted to. Food markets are the revolution, not the way around. Did you know that?
There is only one thing I dislike in markets: tourists. Yes, I am a tourist anywhere besides where I live, however, going to a street market is intrinsic of my being, like an imprinted character. Thus, I can be elsewhere in the world, I’ll feel as a local shopper. Like a chameleon in a leafy landscape, I can camouflage, it’s my natural environment. Presumptuous? Yes, but I can’t help being a bit selfish sometimes. So excuse my hostility but, we don’t need more scarce references of the top five pink donoughts in town if when you leave the market you carry nothing but your selfie stick with you. Grab at least a jar of pickles to eat on the side walk drinking a cold beer with a stranger. The experience is what matters after all.
Meanwhile in the kitchen
Anything could happen in the meanwhile in Melbourne. Trams horn, people cross streets, musicians play drums and guitars on the corners, civilians stop to stare at window shops, to photograph the architecture. Glass panels reflect blooming begonias, daisies, marigolds. But it’s no fairy tale. Fragile, self-destructive bodies, possessed by its own demons, lost in chemical reactions, crawl on the luxurious corners of Collins Street. Meanwhile this organized chaos takes place outside, pots, stoves, friers, grills, chefs, and waiters are on fire inside bars, restaurants, pubs and diners.
Our eating routine was stablished when we stopped at a friend’s house. They served us a traditional family size lebanese meal, and oh my, it was so good. We had a super aromatic rice with chicken, lots of almonds and pine nuts, and lots of cinamon (Roz a Djej); there was Kibbeh Bil Sanieh, baked bulgur wheat and minced beef filled with lots of nuts; some fresh salad and lots of yoghurt to make everything better together. The dessert was a combination of bread soaked in sugar syrup, thick cream (ashta) and pistachios called Aish el Saraya. As legit lebaneses they made us feel comfortable and welcomed by serving us lots of food with lots of love, what culminated on a late dinner, at 10pm. Truth be said, we could easily have skipped the second meal.
Aiming for a light dinner but open for the russian roulette of shops open nearby, Google led us to an old school chinese restaurant. Steppping in, I wondered if I had just acquired teletransporting powers, was I in China? Ling nan it is called. Big tanks with live crustaceans and octopuses by the door, plain white walls, metal chairs, plastic tablecloths, greasy water bottles, no fuss. Here I recorded of a podcast episode where David Chang talks about the fear of being in a restaurant you know nothing about. There was I. With the fear to choose something unfamiliar, we ended up having fried white bait and mapo tofu with fried rice. Boring? Maybe, but also lucky. It was sooooo good.
Next day, Saturday morning in the coffee mecca of Australia, we found out that a few cafes in the city close during the weekend. Odd. Not a lucky start, but left us with enough space in the stomach for the first foodie adventure of the day, South Melbourne Market. That is the vibe that excites me, anywhere I go, I chase food markets in town. Queues are a real bummer though, and I never succumb to them. I invite myself to the empty stall, which deserves to be honored as well. Me and my husband shared porchetta panini at Pieno de Grazia, mini pies at Small Pie Town Co, half pork knuckle and pickles at Little Hof and a jam donut at Cobb Lane. Far out, I wanted to go back another day for more.
The last supper was at Jim’s Greek Tavern, I still don’t know what happened there. It is a busy big restaurant with older greek men walking around with hand towels thrown on their shoulders, brushed and shinny hairs, a little notebook in their jean’s pockets, no menu, and they tell you what you’re gonna eat. You nod your head ever so slightly and when you least expect food starts to come. You eat a lot and go home. That is basically it. I need to go there again, like a book you must read a second time to ensure you really understood what it’s about.
Final meal was on Sunday morning, when I succumbed to a queue of tourists. (I have already forgiven myself for that). I went to Lune Croissanterie, and I’m sorry to disappoint queue fans and the croissants, I would not do it again. I expected warm-buttery-crunchy-chewy-soft croissant, but nah. Was cold, more hollow than layers, not so flavorfull. I have other favorites in Sydney, thankfully, otherwise I would be checking flight deals to Melbourne more often.
We left that city a bit speechless: processing all the cultural diversity we have got in touch with and all the food intake. This was not supposed to be a gastronomical tour, but is hard to run away from it. Nothing was planned, everything was fully appreciated. If you don’t devour Melbourne, it will devour you.
Enable 3rd party cookies or use another browser
Tell your friends
New Voices on Food 2
A secret has been kept for a few months and now we can spread the word...
New Voices on Food 2 is now released and available for pre-order. It is fruition of an incredible project designed by @leetranlam as part of @diversityinfoodmedia.au brought to reality by @somekind_press.
This project features emerging voices from less represented backgrounds in Australia and aproaches the theme Past, Present, and Future, showcasing food as a manisfestation portal.
I am thrilled to be one to raise my voice and collaborate with this. Pre order now to get your name printed on the book.
Do you agree?
When the fashion industry brings back trends you wore as a twelve year old, makes you realize time really passes by.