Buona Figura

What's better than Black Coffee?
The frozen fish guy playing Nina Simone singing "Black Coffee" at 9:30.

"Oh... no. She'll want to go to the market with you so you show her the best stands." I have only one housewife friend- Kiki. She perceives the intricacies of the situation at once. The possible damage to my relationships at the weekly market would elude my other friends (who though lack for no savoir vivre in night life, where the guidelines are actually roughly similar). My mother-in-law is moving to our neighborhood and this- this out of a dozen possible foreboding musings- is the first thing out of her mouth. "She's going to bother your vendors...."

The thing is, to keep up a buona figura in the market you need to be ruthless, and charming. You have to be vigilant about quality, but you also have to be happy to spend to get it. Ruthless she is- I remember the first time I went with her- this is more than 20 years ago. She reaches into a bag that has been padded by the vendor (another piece or two he adds to round up to an even kilo or two) and pulls out a piece- "were you selling this as a tomato?" She was right, of course. But this is not the whole story.

She does good sometimes- for instance (this is also some 20 years ago) it's the third day in a row that the bakery in Chania (Crete)- one with an enormous wood oven turning out not just dark thick-crusted loaves loaves but also baking the meals of the neighborhood*- has given me bread still gummy in the middle. The first day it could be a fluke. The second day, my mother-in-law said- "Maybe they know foreigners eat softer bread, you know like that packaged, squishy bread we saw in the States." The third day, she marched me over to meet her former kindergarten classmate, the latest generation to run the family bakery. The woman said "Ah." She gave me an unabashed glance up and down, to register who I am. "We thought she was a tourist."- this by way of a completely reasonable explanation for giving me the last choice of loaf. Of course, it never happened again. And suddenly, I didn't wait in line so much either. It's like when the bouncer unhooks the velvet rope at a club everyone wants to get in to just for you, but much more important. I could live the rest of my life without seeing the inside of another club. But the right loaf of bread? That matters.

Instant gratification- cheerfully stocked shelves.
These are at a bodega on 24th street in Mission, SF.

When you're buying packaged food, who you are is not so important. It's a uniform product, sitting on a shelf, and it takes no discernment to select it, no charm to get the best one. It makes for an easy purchase, and at heart an unsatisfying one. But most of the things we have in our kitchens- our loaves and our fishes- are not uniform, and who you are is in fact very important, or at least it is in this part of the world.

Building your figura in the marketplace takes a little time. There are a lot of shoppers- experienced ones- matrons armed with metal carts- and you need to distinguish yourself over the course of several visits. It's not too difficult- the matrons are often pretty vicious. A smile, a little admiration, really stand out.

The Buona Figura comes more easily to some.

This goes both ways- you're not just distinguishing yourself, but also sizing up the vendors. Over the course of months and years, you'll have a routine of regular stalls. Along the way, you will necessarily have discarded several vendors- cheapness, wiliness, poor manners. It's important to be decisive about this. There are a lot of fish in the sea, and being ruthless about character is not so much a right as it is an obligation. These people are there for hours every week, same spot, they know who buys from who, and they know why. This is, after all, the agora**... the stage of public life; you've got to play your part.

Once you have your routine though, you can free up the charm a little. The people selling you this very important stuff have been up for hours and hours, doing backbreaking work while you were still too drowsy to think even about making yourself a cup of tea. Market originally is only for producers- farmers selling their produce, beekeepers, poultry guys, etc. Many stands are still run by producers, and a little connoisseurship never goes unappreciated. Admire. Apart from getting the best stuff, it is this that makes market a really satisfying experience. 

Kosma- a farmer with a small selection of
organic produce (the only one), with his:

"Κολοκυθάκια" = zucchini. "Παραγωγός" = producer (farmer).
They'll be a Boureki later in the week (Cretan dish). 

Many of the vendors you keep will sell the same goods. For instance, I have only one pumpkin lady, but several tomato vendors. I spread out my custom in an informal rotation, based on what looks best. Then I always greet the others. One of the tomato guys has this exquisite variety from late April (when it costs more than fish, and I'm happy to pay) until June, when the variety finishes. He comes to both markets so I see him twice a week during that season, and I buy heavily. To not stop by until the next April, that would just be tacky- like only dating a guy when he can borrow his dad's car.

Pretty Argyro, with fat melons...

and creamy luscious squash:

And when I buy, I buy fair- getting a representation of what is on offer. No rotten peaches, but not just the biggest peaches either. You can't be greedy. You also can't be cowed by the other shoppers: it's fine to admonish them charmingly for hogging the bin. I may pick carefully, but I pick swiftly as well and- this is important- no unseemly squishing and groping. Sometimes I tell the vendor "you know best." I get things nicer than I would pick out on my own***. They do know best, and they never unload the substandard stuff on a respectful customer. And if I don't need all perfect, I say so- no sense taking only his pretty salad tomatoes if I'm going to grate half of them into a pulp an hour later. Fair play brings out the vendors' generosity. It also ensures you always get first pick when you need it, and- most importantly of all perhaps- that none of the lovely things go to waste. Lastly, if you like having something special available, then you have to buy that thing. Only one vendor sells thyme and tarragon, so I get them, whether I think I need them or not. They always find their way into something in the course of the week.

The practiced hand of an elderly gentleman samples some tarragon.
That's his wife, getting out her wallet.

What do I get out of this? Well, the contact is nice. These people have a huge impact on my family's week, on the beauty of the table. And they know it- if something went over big, I tell them about it the next week. They also know how to get the best out of their goods- preparation tips, storage tips. The beet greens someone else had cut off always get stuffed into my bags as a parting gift, along with big handfuls of samples. Then of course there's the vip room of produce- items in limited supply they keep back in the truck and don't put out for just anyone. I get this stuff.

Babbis and his boys- beautiful produce, great service.

A buona figura is also an insurance policy. It's not just getting the best of everything and a friendly exchange; it's the vendors not treating you like everyone else. My head was recently turned by a very fine price on some small red mullets. As I looked back at them over my right shoulder, the fishmonger caught my eye, then glanced quickly upward - the Eastern Mediterranean's subtle gesture of 'no.' "Those aren't for you, my girl..." he said under his breath, then continued to hawk.

Pavlos, who sold me the bass in Rich Catch of Fish.
That's his daughter smiling in the background.

*this is a charming thing- mostly of the past but still going on- bakeries with large wood-burning ovens will bake alongside their loaves your homemade meal- your stuffed tomatoes, your leg of lamb with potatoes, etc- and you pick it up a couple hours later. How heavy those hot sheet pans laden with food are as you carry them not to the table but down the street and around the corner in the midday sun! But the smell- it smells so much nicer than it would from your electric oven- full of woodsmoke, plus whispers of your neighbors' dinners was roasting next to it.  They charge little for this valuable community hearth.

**Agora means marketplace- think of our word 'agoraphobia'.

***If the produce is artfully stacked, avoid this. Glancing behind the facade of the pyramid, one often finds considerably less appealing pieces- much smaller, blemished, unripe, overripe, etc. These beguiling structures are often the tools of the wily vendor.