We went to the market this morning because Albert decided he’s now an authority on Catalan food.
This happened after last night’s tomato-bread dinner, which he has been referring to as “the rubbing tomato meal”.
Apparently that qualifies him to make purchasing decisions.
So we took the metro to Mercat de Sant Antoni, which is the one I like because it’s big enough to feel chaotic but not quite as tourist-dense as Boqueria. You walk in and immediately get hit with the smell of bread, fish and coffee all at once, which is either wonderful or slightly alarming depending on the time of day.
Albert stopped dead about five steps inside.
“Is this all food?”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
Even the fish heads.
He stared at those for quite a while.
“I feel like those fish had plans.”
We went to the vegetable stall first because I wanted tomatoes that actually taste like tomatoes.
The woman behind the counter had piles of them, the slightly wrinkly tomàquets de penjar that Catalans swear are the correct ones for pa amb tomàquet. They look a bit tired, like they’ve just finished a long shift.
Albert picked one up and turned it over like a jeweller inspecting a diamond.
“Why is this tomato old?”
“It isn’t old.”
“It looks old.”
The stall lady laughed.
“It’s a good tomato,” she said.
Albert wasn’t convinced.
Then he asked the question.
“How much is one tomato?”
She told him the price per kilo.
Albert frowned, because this clearly wasn’t the information he wanted.
“But I only need one.”
There was a pause while the woman and I looked at each other.
Albert placed the tomato on the counter.
“I will give you fifty cents.”
I didn’t interrupt. I wanted to see where this would go.
The woman leaned forward.
“You think this tomato is worth fifty cents?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s small.”
At this point two other customers were pretending not to listen.
She picked up a much bigger tomato.
“This one is bigger.”
Albert studied it carefully.
“That one seems expensive.”
She laughed again and handed him two tomatoes.
“One for the negotiator.”
Albert whispered to me as we left the stall:
“I think I got a very good deal.”
The bread counter was next.
Bread in Catalonia is treated with deep seriousness. The baker recommended pa de pagès, which is the round country loaf that everyone insists is the correct one for tomato bread.
Albert asked him a question that made the baker blink.
“Why is your bread better than supermarket bread?”
The baker said, without hesitation,
“Because we wake up at four in the morning.”
Albert thought about this.
“That sounds like a difficult lifestyle.”
Markets have a strange effect on mornings.
Nobody rushes. People talk to the stall owners, ask where the fish came from, argue gently about olives. It’s not like supermarkets where everyone moves like they’re late for a train.
Albert noticed this too.
“Why is everyone chatting?”
“Because they come here every week.”
He nodded like this was an interesting social system he might study later.
When we got home we toasted the bread, rubbed the tomatoes over it, poured olive oil on top.
Albert took a bite.
“These tomatoes are better.”
“Why?”
“Because I negotiated them.”
I suppose that’s one theory.
Markets do that though.
You go in for vegetables and come out with small stories attached to them.
And occasionally a child who believes he has personally beaten the Catalan tomato economy.