Bill would rather not give me his last name. Which isn't really that weird, in and of itself. Sometimes people don't want their full names in the paper, for whatever reason; it happens often enough that I've quit suspecting such reticence has anything to do with the Witness Protection Program.But for some reason, it strikes me as funny that Bill demurs. Bill sells cheese at Old Hyde Park Village's Farmer's Market every Saturday morning, and is seriously mourning the locked-out hockey season. And Bill's cheeses absolutely kick ass.
Bill says his cheeses are from "upstate New York." When the man next to me declares he's from upstate New York, and asks Bill to be more specific, Bill can't. I wonder if maybe there's a guy with an even more pronounced Northern accent tied up and lying prone across the bench seat in the cab of a refrigerated truck in the shadows of one of the tony shopping complex's three parking garages.
Probably there's not. Probably Bill just doesn't want to be bothered. So I purchase a wedge of extremely sharp cheddar and a wheel of gouda encased in red wax, and go look for somebody else to bother.
The Main Fountain Area — that circle off Snow Avenue that looks more like a great excuse for valet parking than anything else — is a stylishly festive tangle of pumpkins, portable white tents and extremely fit men of all ages. Market season is upon us, and Hyde Park's Saturday-morning affair seems to exemplify the weekend bazaars getting into full swing in neighborhoods throughout the Bay area: a promenade consisting mostly of vendors offering artsy doodads a bit too pretentious for the once-mandatory addendum "and crafts," along with some foods, some beverages, and one quality monster produce stand.
It's conspicuously more upscale than Ybor City's smaller Fresh Market, which was still waking up in the park adjacent to the State Museum when I visited around 8:30 a.m. Where that shindig leaned more heavily toward touristy knickknacks, hats and freaky woodwork, the Hyde Park deal goes in for smoothies, energy drinks, glass hangings and gourmet doggie treats. Ybor's lone vegetable spread was pretty good, however, and I'm interested in seeing if Hyde Park's stands up.
It does, and then some. Its proprietor, Dell Kelleher, has been overseeing produce stands all over Tampa Bay for 12 years. She's been working this market since its latest version kicked off three years ago, and was featured in a story about farmer's markets that ran in Southern Living last year.
Kelleher knows what the shoppers are looking for. Big tomatoes. Fresh spinach, still dirty from the ground. Giant red bell peppers at about half the price they go for in supermarkets. Homemade pastries stuffed with fresh fruit. And she delivers, even if it means going to great lengths to do so, as she's had to in the wake of our recent disastrous weather.
"Right now, a lot of this is coming from out of state," she says. "The Florida crops, a lot of stuff all the way up the Eastern seaboard, hasn't come in yet, because of the hurricanes."
The added shipping expense ups the prices a little, but the quality still outshines what one finds at the grocery store. Two zucchini, three waxless cukes, four tomatoes and a giant wad of that killer spinach later, I'm off to take in downtown St. Pete's Saturday Morning Market.
Ybor's Fresh Market is funky, and Hyde Park's Farmer's Market is picturesque. But the Saturday Morning Market, for which the block of Central Avenue between First and Second streets is closed to traffic, works on a completely different level; to compare either of the Tampa markets I'd just left to it would be about as fair as comparing a Catholic church fall carnival to Busch Gardens. There aren't a dozen vendors on Central; there are dozens. There isn't one produce stand; there are, like, five. And there aren't 20 or 50 people perusing the stalls; there are hundreds of seniors, couples, pods of tourists and neighborhood kids here, wandering about, wallets and bottles of water in hand.
Here, edibles and potables aren't just a side attraction to the other merchandise — goods that range from the intriguing to the completely inane — but rather battle them for market supremacy. There are more folks in line for coffee at the Grinders kiosk than there were in Ybor City, total, sellers included. Tables are full of youngsters chewing on barbecue, red velvet cake, chips and salsa, pineapple.
There's a stand selling fresh seafood.
There's a freakin' jazz band.
The smell of large portions of dead animal grilling over a low, carefully watched flame draws me to the market's eastern end, where a booth called Mr. I Got 'Em offers hot sandwiches in addition to produce. Ella Spencer sells me an outsized smoked sausage link on a hot dog bun.
"We've got sides, too," she says.
"What are they?"
(Please say collard greens. Please say collard greens. Please say collard greens.)
"Cornbread and collard greens."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Spencer pulls the top off a big barrel cooler to reveal that it's brimming with steaming greens. My eyes water, partly from the fumes but mostly with tears of joy.
A co-worker asks how much she made.
"Seven bunches," she replies, smiling. "I made six last Saturday, and we sold out."
After eating, I wander around, nodding at strangers, enjoying a sun that soothes instead of sears, buying cool shit like garlic-infused olive oil and spicy pickled asparagus (both from Largo-based Al's Foods). It's very nice. I wonder what other cultural marvels I might be missing by sleeping until the afternoon on Saturdays because I've been out smoking cigarettes and arguing with my fellow degenerates until all hours every Friday night. I briefly consider getting up at 7:30 a.m. on weekends from now on.
Then I go home, and go back to bed.
scott.harrell@weeklyplanet.com
This article appears in Oct 13-19, 2004.