To market, to market to buy a fat...

These lumpy. pointy tomatoes come early in the summer,
and stay too briefly. They have bright green seeds.

"....oh, there you are again!...." I'm eyeing a table sagging under the weight of a heap of black cherries, and probably have said this aloud. I've been home for eight hours (I just came from a month in San Francisco. When I booked my ticket i said "Oh good- that gets in at midnight on Thursday, so I won't miss market."). I am jet lagged, and ravenous. And the season has

changed! It's like a merry little reunion at the farmers market, beloved items returning after months of absence. A week's offerings look much like the previous one's as the seasons (many, many more than four) gracefully flow one to the next, but certainly every three weeks or so sees the return of something grand. Of course the first of them come a little pricey, but you always want to say a quick hello- just a kilo. "Hooooo! Cherries?!" Charlene, my older daughter, has just lifted them out of the cart in their paper bag- she can't see them but feels them through the bag, warm from the sun. They're not the best we'll have all season- they'll be fatter and darker and sweeter and more succulent ones- but they're pretty good. We have them washed and chilled and plain. Later in the season, if I get some that need a little oomph, or are not so firm, I'll pit them and macerate them in a little dark rum and a pinch of sugar and I won't mind the purple stains on my fingers at all.

I've lived in Greece for fifteen years now, and went back and forth for years before that. At least twice a week, someone will ask me where I am from and then incredulously- almost rudely- wonder why anyone would leave Manhattan for Greece. (This never happens in the United States- there they say "Oh you live in Greece that must be very nice!"). Well, it is very nice. The three best things about living in Greece are:

1. The weekly produce markets (I have two where I live- Mondays and Fridays)

2. Outdoor cinemas

3. Everything else

But mainly, it is the food, the connection to food- not just culturally but in the way the society is structured and the way food is distributed- in the way you shop here. It's a much more vivid connection to place, to time, to the world around you. And not just geographically- ambivalent omnivores who are used to meat portioned in styrofoam packages are going to go one way or the other shopping at the central market. When I came here the first time I was a vegetarian, and I kept my eyes lowered in the central market (I actually felt a little queasy)- heads everywhere: big heads, little heads, pigs and cows and goats (these are thought especially fine)- and on the ground, white plastic buckets of intestine. Now I eat everything, with a measure of respect brought on by somewhat brutal reality. There's no sterile comfortable anonymity here- just blood and life and death and dinner.

Marketing- serious marketing that is- takes a lot of your week here, and for me, it's the best part of that week. For the maximum value, quality, and experience, you'll want to visit the following: weekly market (for fish too), the wine store (various local wines decanted for you into 1 liter plastic bottles and nice for everyday lunch), a store for cheeses and cold cuts, the corner green grocer for milk and super fresh eggs, one of the supermarkets (every day, in rotation- sugar, coffee, rice, canned milk, ...), the bakery for bread (also every day- it's good to let the extra bread build up for croutons and bruschetta), the butcher, the Russians' neighborhood market (tea!). Of course, you have a relationship with all of these people, and a pleasant exchange. Market days take the most time- first of all it's really large- you need to pass through once, check everything out, then turn around and buy what you liked best. There's no rule that says you have to go to the same vendors for specific things but... you've got to be tactful: it's like dating. three times in a row and it pretty much seems exclusive. The old men are particularly touchy. Then you have masses of stuff to deal with- potatoes and onions for the balcony, fruits to be organized by ripeness, beets and their sandy greens to clean, boiled greens to clean, fish to gut and salt and scent with lemons. In addition to this, you'll have occasional forays into town to the central covered market for olives, grains, legumes, and variety meats (tripe, testes. Not for me, yet...). Other staples come to you by some more personal means: honey, olive oil, grappa, maybe even your wine- these things you usually get in a quantity sufficient for the season from an uncle- your own or somebody else's.

This makes Thessaloniki exactly like- ironically- Manhattan. I grew up in Tribeca, which in 1980 had no supermarkets, so all our shopping was old-world: Faicco's for sausage, the Salumeria for canned tomatoes and torrone, Rafetto's for ravioli, Joe's Dairy for fresh mozzarella, Zito's for bread, Chinatown for produce and fish, Kosar's for bialys, Russ and daughter's for lox, and Dean and Deluca for the pans to cook everything up in.