On y Va: Emma Goes to the French Market
On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I intern at a company in Fulton Market. I almost didn’t go today, and I almost left early when I saw how empty the office was. I weighed my options and decided to just take a long lunch. I didn’t clock out.
The walk to the enormous building that houses the market isn’t far, but the walk isn’t pleasant. I feel like Fulton Market has seen so much hospitality growth and welcomed a lot of white-collar occupancy, but the area just isn’t up to snuff yet. The streets are wider and slashed with train tracks, so it takes longer to get from A to B than it would Downtown or up north. There’s a lot of errant ice on major sidewalks; the North Side gets more attentive shoveling. The buildings are tall enough to create wind tunnels, so I’m constantly caught in a vortex. There is an active and fragrant chocolate factory nearby, though. That’s nice.
The French Market, le grand marché. It’s unimpressive from the outside. I don’t know the whole story behind it or how it came to be. Not everything there is French, I can tell you that much. Most notably, at the moment, moi.
It’s 12:30, prime lunchtime. Lines are long and people are loud, très bruyants. This is all magnified by the low ceilings and dim lighting. I look up. There are certainly enough lighting tracks dangling. Could they dial it up a smidge? They probably don’t want people to see how expensive everything in here is. There’s almost no blank white space on the walls, everything has murals or doors or signage. I guess it adds to the bustling market feel for some, but I find it a little depressing. The vendor stalls read like cubicles. Those are fluorescent bulbs. Harrowing flashbacks to my nine-to-five days…wait, are those tiny cheeses?
Experience: Out of Chicken Noodle, But Paul Was Nice:
I have only ever ordered from one merchant: Loop Soup. I’m a creature of habit. I get in line, it’s lengthy but speedy. I’ve been going there for two months and as far as I know, only two people work there. One of them, Paul, is getting yelled at by a ponytailed professional in a patented, Ladies-Who-Lunch type of way because there’s no more chicken noodle soup for her to buy. Look, I get it; I too am a solid mass of phlegm. I was going to put their chicken soup in my neti pot. I tell that joke to the guy in gingham behind me. He is unimpressed.
When it’s my turn, I order the B.L.A.T. but Paul already knew that. BLAT. A wholly unappealing name for an obstinately delicious sandwich, a BLT stacked high with avocado. I also get creamy broccoli cheddar soup. Bad choice for Phlegm, great choice for Em…ma! Paul laughs. That woman didn’t even put him in a bad mood. My lunch came out as quickly as ever. It was also almost seventeen dollars. I cringe and pocket the receipt. It is now an artifact, a totem to ward off other frivolous purchases.
Everything at the market is given to you in paper bags, even if you’re sticking around to eat in the little café. They have some longer tables but also plenty of circular, individual tables. It’s all made to look like tables on a patio outside of a petit bistro, with umbrellas and all. I sit down at a four-top.
Experience: A Cacophony of Coughs
There’s a lot of people here. Sheesh, don’t you guys have work to do? So many start-ups in this area, isn’t that like a mandatory 70-hour workweek? You don’t have time for this. Go back to your standing desks.
I grabbed so many of those rough-textured brown paper napkins. A) Because despite forks or fingers I’m always messy with eating, B) I know this hot soup’s going to make my nose run, C) they make great face-oil-blotters. Seriously. Something about being in offices makes me extra oily, and these are the most economical way to deal with it. You know what, I’m gonna use one right now. I feel better already.
I’m just noticing they smell like bread. Do I smell like bread now? Will pocket for further study.
There’s a lot of noise from people, obviously. Strangely their chewing is most noticeable to me, more so than their conversation. And there are so many rolling carts and cans here to schlep product around. Yes, it’s all very bistro-esque. Bravo, French Market.
Ugh, now everyone’s coughing. No, literally, everyone is coughing. Am I coughing? I am. I’m fucking coughing right now. Jesus Christ. I didn’t get a drink, maybe I’ll drink some soup.
Ope, nope, now I’m choking. I just spit all over the table. Why is my mouth always open? WHY IS EVERYONE ELSE STILL COUGHING?
…Did anyone see me spit up broccoli cheddar?
That guy in the Saigon Sisters stall did. He also saw me drop my upturned bag last week. Damn it.
