This semester, I took a class called “Cities and Food” as part of my Nutrition minor. An anthropological class at heart, one of our assignments was to do a “thick description” of Boston’s Public Market and Haymarket. This included taking field notes, talking to vendors, and soaking up the scene. Read below for my theatrical take of the two markets!
To an outsider, the neighboring Boston Public Market (BPM) and the Haymarket almost appear to be synonymous. Despite their proximity, the markets are rather different. In the following analysis, I will delve into how the markets emulate a theatrical experience in their own ways to expose the evolving identity of Boston. Considering my habitual food provisioning joint is Stop & Shop, upon entering these different markets, I immediately feel like an actor shapeshifting into two divergent characters. This temporary metamorphosis, along with Jennifer Clapp’s framing of individuals as “actors” in the food system (2014), prompted the questions: how are consumers and vendors passive or active actors in this system? In particular, are there scripts one is expected to follow, which ones are said, and what happens if you don’t follow it?
By virtue of the theater analogy, the Haymarket can be likened to an immersive theater experience, where the audience (customers) become actors, and scripts mesh with improv.
Kayla steps into the market and is jostled into the spiralized jungle of sensory overload.
Vendor A yells (left stage): “2 (cartons) strawberries for $5! $10 at stores!”
Seconds later, the Vendor B bellows (right stage): “3 (cartons) strawberries for $5!”
Kayla’s head darts left to right.
Both on the vendor and consumer side, this is what the market does: bring out your Darwinian avatar for a chance to win at the survival of the fittest. As such, there is a multi-level competition at play. Firstly, part of the adrenaline rush is navigating swarms of people, whilst maintaining an eagle eye and mental tab of stalls with the best looking and best pricing of each produce. None of the stalls are labeled, so one must condition for the mental acuity of a memory map and precise facial recognition. Secondly, it’s a gritty experience that instigates a desire to score and earn the best deal that intersects a fine balance of freshness with cheapness. As a consumer, I flock to the cheaper priced produce, quickly assess and snatch the best looking of the bunch, and pay with cash without fumbling my physical money; I want to play “the efficient consumer” that vendors expect. Thirdly, the vendors not only compete with themselves, but also supermarkets – perhaps the “Radio City” equivalents of this theater parallel – which reveals an interesting stratification of individual vendors versus corporate ones. Flipping through a town newspaper or even Youtube, consumers can find coupons for the supermarket and even videos of new international imports (like Biscoff). The Haymarket vendors must prove not only to each other, but to the consumers of their uniqueness – all without the formal advertisements, labeled structure, and big bucks that supermarkets have. Intangibly, the words they choose sell.
Part of being in an immersive theater experience means you can interact with fellow actors, branching off from the script. One can meet the people who have chosen the selection of options, conviving, with time, a sense of interdependence and trust, according to the Historic New England and the Haymarket Pushcart Association’s Haymarket video (2015). Some vendors do not wish to speak to me, particularly if I had my note pad out, which was eyed with heavy suspicion; upon reflection, this is likely because amongst the stage traffic, I was not properly playing the role of the efficient, alpha customer. I manage to figure out that if I buy first, vendors are more likely to not only speak, but reveal their backstories; two gentlemen portray perhaps two eras of the Haymarket, the old and the new. In conversing with the vendors, I most glaringly notice displacement – temporally, geographically, culturally, and emotionally.
Kayla, after buying $1 bushel of asparagus: How has the Haymarket changed over the years?
Older vendor (Tony): I’ve been working here since I was seven with my father. Back then children used to work, no childhood. Families – Italians, Jewish, Irish – used to be bigger. Now they’re Spanish. Everything has changed for the worse, don’t you think?
He is demoralized and reminisces over the olden days, but touts how he always looks for the freshest vegetables (his asparagus were magnificent, in fact). While displacement is often discussed in the context of people being forced to leave residential area, Tony expressed how displacement can extend to people being forced to leave their memories of a beloved area as it changes. Like everything in the food system, the Haymarket is an evolving definition, and Tony’s depressed demeanor reminds of the temporal and emotional attachment not only of food, but the people who used to sell and buy food too. In the larger context of this theater, the Haymarket’s immersive nature allows for more flexibility between actors, as his backstory provides an authenticity and historical, familial depth that makes the Haymarket feel more real.
Ushering in the new generation of the market, the second gentleman (let’s call him Abed) and I have a large language barrier, yet he is the most eager to speak. Just as interestingly, his co-workers want him to speak to me, perhaps because not many people try to hold a conversation with them. Abed is more aligned with the traditional categorization of displacement, in that he had been a doctor in Algeria before fleeing, a fact he tells me almost immediately. Food Not Bombs by David Giles lightly touches upon markets, stating: “although these market-publics often privilege ‘sedentarist’ norms rooted in the territorial claims of businesses and property owners, the economic restructuring that corresponds to the growth of global cities has fostered myriad forms of cultural and economic deterritorialization: patterns of spatial and/or social displacement, from the vagrant’s downward mobility to the migrant diaspora’s global transit” (171). Abed points to a stall across the street and notes how he used to work there, but now he works at his stall with his friends, and is trying to become a Certified Nursing Assistant. When it came to choosing produce, he put it most simply.
Kayla: How do you decide what to sell?
Abed: If you find something really cheap, it’s what you get. [Smiles]
Tony did not mention pricing, but rather that his food was simply fresh which can illuminate how perhaps more modern customers are simply after the deal.
Where Haymarket is more of an immersive theater experience, the Boston Public Market (BPM) mimics a more poised production, with assigned seats and scripted, choreographed performances. If one word could summarize the BPM ambiance it would be “curated,” and as such, is proof of Boston’s advancement as a global city. Similar to the flow of most supermarkets, the entrance of this indoor market’s setting has a “produce section” equivalent in the form of a hip juicery and apple farm stall. In this market, I transform into a more relaxed, mannered character, as BPM’s tone and setting actually encourages clients to take the time to peruse the stalls and sample foods. Strategically laid out, the juicery Mother Juice appeals to the young generation’s interest in “healthy” superfoods, and in the grander performance of BPM, serves as an opening act for the rest of the market experience. In fact, many clients in the market are carrying their $10.75 smoothie cups as they view other stalls; one comedic moment is when I see someone with a green juice in one hand and a mountain of ice cream in a sprinkle covered waffle cone in the other. Perhaps the point is that in this market, one can become and satisfy one’s many characters, from the health conscious foodie to ice cream indulger; dissimilar to Haymarket experience, BPM does not bring forth a Darwinian character, and as such, there is no time-sensitive game plan on choices to be made.
Unlike the Haymarket, BPM, founded in 2015, is more to date with the times, and it shows in its script; it’s like being in a play in a different language and era. Technologically, touchless credit card machines are readily available, and some stalls (like the rock one), lacked physical cash altogether. Business cards display Instagram handles, and the Korean Perillas stall is named as such because “perillas”, despite not being a real Korean word, is the top to show up in a Google search. While the Haymarket which highlights street smarts, this theater requires fluency in technological and international cuisine savviness.
Similar to two dimensional theater sets, when I go to actually talk to some of the people at the BPM stalls, the script falls flat, devoid of a backstory or personal connection to the items sold. Take Red Apple Farm, for example. While there were no apples on site, the stall contained all of the apples’ descendents including cider, cider donuts, apple crisp mix, and jam.
Kayla: Where are the apples?
Red Apple Farm Vendor (young woman): I’m not sure. (Vendor pauses as a confused look crosses her face.) We have apple cider, cider donuts, apple baking mixes, and apple jam.
Kayla’s eyes drift towards the blackboard that lists “lavender” as the seasonal cider donut flavor in a swirly purple script.
Kayla: What makes this flavor seasonal?
Red Apple Farm Vendor, in an indifferent, passive tone: Because it’s only offered right now. So like for St. Patrick’s day, it was pistachio.
Just as this was likely not the question the vendor was expecting, this was not quite the answer I was expecting; it perplexed me for the rest of the day, as my connotation of “seasonal” was more agricultural than occasional. The vendor’s general perplexed attitude to my questions demonstrates how having a conversation outside the transactional purchasing dialogue was perhaps a rare occurrence at BPM. Moreover, even though Red Apple Farm is advertised as a local farm, it lacked the personal touch and authenticity that speaking to Tony and Abed satisfied – the vendor seemed oblivious to the absence of apples. Seasonality takes on its own connotation according to the BPM script, conducing the client’s celebratory, culinarily adventurous, Instagram-seeking character, which is far cry from the rough bustle of the market just nextdoor. Therefore, since BPM’s theatrical experience is of a different, more choreographed genre, actors adhere to a consensual script; none of the BPM vendors are yelling or competing, people leisurely stroll around the market with no larger game plan, and of course, there are more beautiful, curated foods (just like BPM).
The two theatrical experiences provide the consumer with the option of choosing their own adventure. Out for a hunt? Be prepared to step onto the Haymarket stage with agility, confidence, and mental strength; the consumer has license to actively participate and bend the script. Looking for a more polished experience? The transactional and curated BPM script is more predictable, and as such, lower stakes as far as consumer involvement is concerned. As I make sense of my two characters in the markets, I wonder if, with increased frequency, the barrier between these mentalities would begin to melt or cement.
Lights dim…
Audience sees Kayla packing up to visit the markets again.