Our market, the Rochester Public Market, has been a hot spot for local farmers and artisans to sell their products for decades. In fact it has been around since 1827, making it one of the oldest continuously operating farmers’ markets in the country. It wasn’t always as big as it is now, in its youth it was just a single row of carts, but it has truly grown into something extraordinary, filled with incredible people selling unparalleled product. Voted America’s Favorite Farmers Market in 2010 it is a destination spot, even in the winter, come 9:00, you can barely move through the floods of shoppers.
There isn’t a lot that will get me out of bed at 5:30am but in order to do the Public Market, and I mean do it right, getting there early is a must. The alarm sounds, loud, far too loud. How can it possibly be this loud? Everything seems way more intense this early in the morning, every sound cracks through the air, making you cringe. I always feel like I am intruding on something when I get up before the sun rises, like my world shouldn’t come into existence for a few more hours, like I should be asking permission to be here. I swing my feet out of bed, flinching as they come into contact with the floor. Yet another reason why it is unwise to wake this early, central heating doesn’t kick in for at least a couple more hours. The cat looks at me, indignant Apologizing to her profusely, I somehow manage to dress, down a mug of coffee, dig Marvin (my minivan) our of a snow drift, and hit the road (all in under thirty minutes, I think excursions to the market should be considered a sport).
Some twenty minutes later I arrive at the front lot. There are a few people that have beaten me here, but not many, the lot is almost empty. It is early, very early, some of the shops aren’t even open yet. In the summer, by 9:00, these family run food joints, like Cherry’s European, are completely surrounded with customers hunched over styrofoam trays piled high with pierogies, cabbage rolls, potato pancakes and polish sausages; their smells intermingling, hanging heavy in the air. Striding past the darkened windows I enter the indoor section of the market that stretches across the entire southern boarder. The vendors that hold these coveted spots have either had them for generations, or have something seriously good to offer. When you first enter the building you see a counter hidden beneath mounds of bread, to your immediate right you see stacks of asparagus, onions, and mushrooms.
I veer right. I ignore the baked goods, the fishmongers, and the honey lady.
I am on a mission. What could distract me from these beautiful artisan products you ask? Well, I’ll tell you. This.
This is one of the main reasons I come to the market.
This is something I look forward to when I come home from school on vacation. This is the most gorgeous, flavorful beef I have found in Rochester, NY. This is
Seven Bridges.
And this is Barrita and Jeff Shanks, the architects of the whole operation.
Barrita is as vivacious and outgoing as her husband is laid back. Both are truly kind and hardworking people, with a passion for what they do. The cows are born and raised on Seven Bridges farm. Unlike most of the beef you find in supermarkets (although grass fed beef is beginning to become more readily available) these cows forge for their own food (acres and acres of green grass) and have their diet supplemented with natural grains. They have never been given growth hormones or antibiotics, never have they ingested pesticides or animal by-products. The result? Some seriously good meat. And, you know what else? These are some seriously happy cows! Trust me, I visited Seven Bridges this summer.
“What can I do for you Miss Rachel?!” Asks Barrita, coming over to me and giving me a hug. “I have everything today, all of it fresh. I have hanger, I have skirt…” she knows me well. But since my kitchen looks like this:
I was really only planning on picking up some of her beautiful eggs. I mean, really beautiful. Here is a picture of one of the Chefs I worked with this summer holding one of their eggs, still warm (sorry Chef).
But you can’t walk by that counter with all of its beautiful cuts, you really can’t. I have tried. I have failed. I have a gorgeous Sirloin Tip Roast I need to figure out how to cook sans kitchen.
Without a kitchen I am rather limited as to what I can get at the market but I thought I would share some pictures of the fresh produce venders.
Most of the vendors are under an overhang so for the most part weather isn’t an issue. Except for the cold. Boy was it cold. Many of the farms bring little space heaters with them or light small fires. Possibly a fire hazard but at 18˚F I say let them have fire.
Here we have some brussel sprouts, and a heat source. I covet both things. The brussel sprouts being the more impractical of the two to bring back to my frigid kitchenless house. I, however, did not deprive the nice man of his heat lamp and moved on.
Fingers frozen from poking at parsnips, beans, and local cheeses; caffeine levels reaching dangerously low levels I pop into the coffee shop situated on the corner by the satellite parking lots.
Oh wait, yes, something else that can get me out of bed at 5:30am…
Somewhat distorted paintings of sexy men aside one of the big selling points of this coffee joint is Pat. Pat owns a company called
Cosimano e Ferrari, named for his mother and father. Pat's company specializes in olive oils and flavored balsamic vinaigrettes. As I start to talk to him about his products Pat’s face lights up. He immediately starts mixing them:
“Try this,” he says “Chocolate balsamic with tangerine infused olive oil.” I am reminded of the dark chocolate oranges my mom used to buy around Christmas time when I was a little girl.
“Now try this, it’s the chocolate but this time with a chili pepper infused olive oil” it tastes like I am drinking Mexican hot cocoa with an acidic tang.
“We get olives from all over, I am trying to get more countries represented” Pat explains as he mixes some peach balsamic with basil infused olive oil, “and our balsamics, they start out in Italy, aged for at least six years before I see them.”
His olive oils are divine, more for drizzling over a finished dish for flavor than to cook with. I happily walk away clutching a bottle of California Novello to my chest. Its oil is from the olives first press and as fresh as you can get it. I dip some bread into the oil and raise it to my lips, it sings.
Giordano Import, my favorite cheese shop in Rochester, is located just a few doors down from Pat. They specialize in imported European cheeses. I feel like a kid in a candy shop every time I walk in, wheels of cheese entirely obscure the counter. It is still early so the mad lines have not yet begun to form but there is this energy in the air, a collective deep breath before the mad cheese rush begins.
With the cheese shop the rule of thumb is to be quick while you have someone listening. Things get crazy, and fast, it can be overwhelming. Thankful to be there while it’s quiet I munch happily on cheese samples while one of the owners fills a tub with homemade fig jam.
Placing the tub of jam in a basket he asks me if I would like anything else, a tough decision in this shop. Finally, I settle on a wedge of Spanish cheese called Marejon.
Singing loudly in Italian he turns and portions me out a wedge.
When I come later in the day I always come here for lunch. In the back they have a fabulous olive bar, just an appetizer to their gorgeous sandwiches.
Each sandwich is made especially for the customer, all the meat and cheese cut to order. It is time consuming and totally worth it, I would wait hours maybe weeks for one of these sandwiches.
With the snow starting to come down hard outside I decide to call it a day. As I walk back toward my car I notice a large sign “free chocolate tasting.” I had never noticed this shop before, and I will be the first to admit I have a problem, borderline addiction to chocolate. It is never too early for chocolate. It is impossible to have too much chocolate. I have been known to keep three types of chocolate on my person at all times. Free chocolate, point the way. I struggle through mounds of slushy muck to get to the curb and push my way into the store. All in pursuit of chocolate.
I take a deep breath, expecting to be hit smack in the face with the rich sweet smell of melted chocolate. Oh my gosh, bread. Wait, what? Bread? I do a double take. Where is this smell coming from? Where is the chocolate? Off to the right I see a long line of people disappearing into a small, slightly dodgy door. Why not? I can stand in line with the best of them. Chocolate forgotten, mouth watering, I squelch over to the line (my shoes at this point are leaking the contents of the nasty mushy snowy streets all over the place).
I stand there awkwardly. The lights go out in the chocolate shop. There is a zebra head on the wall. Maybe I better ask what I am standing in line for. I clear my throat, the old man in front of me turns around.
“What is this line for?” I ask. His wife turns around.
“Why, it’s the bread line!” she says.
“Is it good bread? It smells like really good bread.” Her hand flits to her chest.
“If you like crusty bread. Do you like crusty bread?” I nod “Well it’s good bread then” she says, placing her hand on her husband’s shoulder, they both laugh at me as I burst into a grin.
Eventually the line began to move, and then it stopped.
It stopped and I got to stand in front of these. Forever. It was torture, inhumane, and they were so so pretty. Look how pretty. And a little ways behind you could see this.
And This.
Periodically a tall gangling guy with a tray of sticky buns held aloft would push his way through the line... and almost plow down the crazy girl with the camera.
After what seemed like ages I finally reached the counter. Everything looked and smelled so good. Practically dancing in place I asked the woman at the counter, tall and thin with a tie-dyed bandana around her head, for a loaf of Fennel and Raisin Semolina and a loaf of Country French. And then I looked down.
Also… those.
She handed me the loaves, still hot from the oven. I could barely wait to get back to the car to tear into the Fennel and Raisin loaf. As I ripped off a piece a puff of steam hit me in the face. It smelled savory and comforting. The crust crunched as I bit into it. The woman was right, it was wonderfully crusty, but not hard. I couldn’t get over the crust, it was so thin, like eggshell, and enclosed within was the lightest bread I have had in a long time. Completely ignoring the people honking for my space I sat there, pulling off small handfuls of bread with no intention of letting the moment end. Thank you,
Flour City Bread Company!
I know this was an incredibly long post but I thought it would be a good segway into who I am and where I come from. My name is Rachel, I am an aspiring chef from upstate New York committed to local organic ingredients. I feel a connection to the land and to the people that farm it. I believe that good food is only as good as the ingredients that go into it and thus feel the need get as close to the source as possible. I have a huge amount of respect for the people who show up every week at the farmers market (both the sell, and to buy) with their own stories and backgrounds. The market stimulates this discourse between consumer and producer. It forces us to ask questions about our food, to be curious about it, and to share information with one another. It makes cooking and dining interactive, it asks us to rethink what food means to us and how the ways in which we farm and eat effect ourselves and our environment. I want to use this blog to ask questions, post recipes and to share my experiences with people who share similar views. People dedicated to their own craft be it farming, raising cattle, or working in the capacity as chef, restaurateur, or environmentally conscious foodie.
