Il Mercato Centrale
Reflections on Florence, Italy, circa 2001
I am immediately struck by the sweet perfume of flowers, the pungent odor of the fish counter, a whiff of fresh bread. The blare of horns and rattle of buses on the street outside give way to a steady hum of voices, peppered with shouts from the fish monger and the distant whack of a knife striking wood. I gaze up at the cavernous roof of the Mercato Centrale, a clear blue sky visible through the glass and steel rafters. I’ve stepped inside the Florentine equivalent of a circus tent, with vendors and shoppers buzzing around the food and flower stalls, readying for the show. I stand transfixed by the rhythm of the market place.
I begin walking slowly past tables piled high with green, orange and yellow peppers, vast varieties of tomatoes I don’t recognize, and citrus fruit in neon colors that look as if they could have been plucked from a tree that morning. I peer down into bins of olives in every shade of green, floating like shiny jewels in their brine. I taste the sweet flesh of a strawberry and chew on a walnut the size of my thumb. I pass wheels of Parmigiana Reggiano that could double as foot stools and let a paper-thin slice of the nutty cheese melt on my tongue. I step carefully around the puddles of water near the fish stalls, peering over the shoulders of Italian grandmothers as they point at mussels, clams, and whole fish packed on ice.
I stop to watch a woman making pasta, her muscled arms deftly moving the rolling pin back and forth, back and forth, her cheeks marked with flour. Rolling, cutting, pressing, each precise move born from years of practice in mastering her craft. She stacks ribbons of pale yellow fettucine and dusts her work table with flour. “Dimmi,” the woman says without looking up. I realize I am standing alone in front of the pasta case and her words are directed at me. I hesitate, my mind racing to conjure the Italian words in reply.
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I begin walking slowly past tables piled high with green, orange and yellow peppers, vast varieties of tomatoes I don’t recognize, and citrus fruit in neon colors that look as if they could have been plucked from a tree that morning. I peer down into bins of olives in every shade of green, floating like shiny jewels in their brine. I taste the sweet flesh of a strawberry and chew on a walnut the size of my thumb. I pass wheels of Parmigiana Reggiano that could double as foot stools and let a paper-thin slice of the nutty cheese melt on my tongue. I step carefully around the puddles of water near the fish stalls, peering over the shoulders of Italian grandmothers as they point at mussels, clams, and whole fish packed on ice.
I stop to watch a woman making pasta, her muscled arms deftly moving the rolling pin back and forth, back and forth, her cheeks marked with flour. Rolling, cutting, pressing, each precise move born from years of practice in mastering her craft. She stacks ribbons of pale yellow fettucine and dusts her work table with flour. “Dimmi,” the woman says without looking up. I realize I am standing alone in front of the pasta case and her words are directed at me. I hesitate, my mind racing to conjure the Italian words in reply.
Photo by Jorge Zapata on Unsplash
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