Tag: Foods

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West side market

This entry is part 2 of 3 in the series Markets

I came to the United States to study. Not planning on staying long-term and not eager to be part of the society, I didn’t prepare myself for any practical matters. Living in the Cleveland metropolitan area in the early 1980s was not particularly exciting. Grocery shopping, for someone used to the convenience and abundance of a Taiwanese markets, was down right depressing. Occasionally, a group of us would go to Chinese grocery stores. They had more dry-goods than fresh produce. I was wondering if American people knew what they were missing.

That all changed when a friend brought me to the West Side Market on a beautiful Saturday morning. Not owning a car, and insecure about venturing out alone, I didn’t know much about Cleveland outside of the University Circles. Traveling to the other side of Cuyahoga River was a grand exploration.

Minutes after crossing the river, we arrived at the market, a massive brick building with a clock tower. It had the statuesque appearance of an old train station. Its interior was a properly designed commercial space with paved floor. The atmosphere was live but not chaotic.

Vegetable and fruit venders occupied the outer layer of stalls. Seasonal harvests piled up high on the stand, with prices clearly labeled. The picture-perfect display was pleasing to the eyes. The free samples were irresistible to the shoppers. There were few spoken words but many quick exchanges of money and bags of produce.

Butcheries, poultry stands, and specialty shops packed the central circle of the market. One could find the cheese shops, with incredible varieties, by following the pungent smells. Fresh pasta of all shapes and colors were eye-opening to me. It’s obvious that the meats were never frozen. The sighting of the heads of pigs and lambs was unnerving, but at the same time, strangely reassuring. Sweets from different cultures—mostly European—were on display at the pastry shops.

I went home not only with bags full of food, but also a new awareness of food culture in America: West Side Market reflected the melting-pot spirit of the country. Even back when Italian food meant spaghetti and meatballs, there were enough people cared about eating fresh and eating well. They kept the culinary traditions of their own while exploring those of others.

Although I left Cleveland within a few months, I didn’t move far. Soon I started driving and was able to shop at the market from time to time. Later, when mom came to the area for visits, I took her there several times as our weekend outings. I understood that the market had gone through some renovations and had become a destination for foodies.[1] Hopefully, I will get to be there again one day.

[1] Westsidemarket.org

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Al fresco

This entry is part 1 of 3 in the series Markets

When I was little, electrical home refrigerators were not available. Going to the open-air market was a daily routine for mom. For me, whenever mom allowed me to tag along, it was always an adventure.

Mom liked to keep her shopping list simple. She would buy seasonal greens and fruits from her favorite vendors. She taught me to be gentle with produce, not to pick and choose so the vegetables and fruits would not be damaged. She seldom bargained with the vendors. Her thoughtfulness was often rewarded with generous quantities.

In those days, imported produce hadn’t hit Taiwanese market. Still, there were plenty choices for shoppers. I liked looking at things that mom never bought, especially if they were of strange shapes and colors. I would tug mom’s skirts and asked her about them. She always said that those funny looking things tasted funny as well. The truth was that they were probably pricey.

We would stop at the dry-goods store for eggs, flour, sugar, dried beans, peanuts, dried shiitake mushrooms, dried shrimp, and, occasionally, herbs—dad preferred natural-tasting food. Nearby was a pickle stand with all kinds of pickles and preserved foods in small containers with glass lids. The candy-like colors of preserves were attractive while the salty fermented smell wasn’t always pleasant.

Traditional markets were full of actions. The owner of the noodle shop was always busy bundling freshly made noodles. Every so often, he threw some dry flour on the counter, swirling the noodles around, stirring up white clouds. His wife would be busy cutting wonton and/or dumpling wrappers, keeping them in neat piles. I loved watching their rapid but smooth motions. They would go on making fresh pasta until late morning.

Vegetables vendors were removing dry/yellowing outer leaves with sickles and spraying water to keep the greens fresh. They cleaned lotus roots, daikon radish, potatoes in buckets. Under their nimble fingers and their sharp knives, black purple water chestnuts turned into creamy little balls. With gentle pushes, they made peas rolled out of their pods into large bamboo trays lined with taro leaves.

In the old days, many Taiwanese people wouldn’t eat beef (or water buffalo meat), because cows and buffaloes contributed in farming and transporting goods. They were also Muslims, mostly from northern China, who observed halal dietary restrictions. So, we would go to separate stands for pork and beef. I admired the knife work of the beef vendor who, within seconds, turned tenderloin into paper-thin slices for stir-fry.

Chickens were shipped in large bamboo cages to the market and slaughtered on site. It was always cacophonous round the poultry stand. Sometimes we stood there long enough to witness the process. I always turned around to avoid the violent motions and sounds.

I didn’t feel as uneasy when fish mongers knocked a fish unconscious before cleaning it up. They scaled the fish unapologetically before weighing and packaging it. There were always other things in the buckets and tanks at the seafood place to distract me: clams, snails, crabs and shrimp. Oysters—usually shucked—were not considered luxury items. But mom told me that the abundance came from extreme labors of oyster farmers. I was taught to respect the animals that sacrificed for us and not to waste food.

My favorite stop at the market was the tofu stand. There might have been more than one tofu vendors. But we always visited the same lady. She was short with peppery perms. Blinded in one eye, her round face was sweet. A Mainlander with heavy accents, somehow, she managed to communicate with mom without glitches.

Her stand was an oasis of calmness in the crowded market. Wooden trays with flats of soft tofu, each about a square foot, covered with linen sheets, were stacked on one side. When the linen cloths were lifted, warmth of tofu misted up the cold morning air—testimonials of freshness of the curds and the dedication of night laborers at the factory. Perfect proportion of the tofu as ordered would be cut with a thin metal slicer and carefully delivered to the customer. I can still feel the tepid curds in my palm. Other than tofu and related products, there were also soybean and mung bean sprouts. Rehydrated wood ear mushrooms, kelp and sea cucumbers were kept in fresh water. For after- meal treats, there were grass jelly (仙草, literally fairy grass) and aiyu (愛玉).[1]

When the city widened the street in front of the market, vendors moved to a new location a few blocks away and continued serving our neighborhood. I last shopped there about eight years ago during a summer visit. There were greater varieties of merchandise. There were a new generation of vendors. What remained was the hustle and bustle. . ..

[1] Grass_jelly_Wiki; Aiyu_jelly_Wiki.