May-December Romance

This appeared Sunday, Nov. 19, 2006

The dark days are upon us.

No, I‘m not talking about the coming reign of Nancy Pelosi, or the possibility that the state House of Representatives will remain in GOP hands. I‘m talking about something with direct, immediate and dire implications for West Chestrians everywhere.

The West Chester Growers Market is set to close down for the season next month.

Ever heard the expression, ”a May-December romance“? This is one of those.

Every May, the growers market opens at the corner of North Church and West Chestnut streets and We Who Know Its Pleasures flock there to get our weekly ration of organic greens, perfect tomatoes, sugary baked goods, free range chicken breasts and ever so ripe peaches, among other etceteras.

And by ”we“ I mean everybody from mothers and daughters to fathers and sons, dogs and their owners, owners and their dogs, off-duty criminal defense attorneys, off-duty police officers, on-duty folk musicians, retired gentlemen, retiring ladies, and every now and then a Goth or two from the local coffeehouse. It can get downright crowded -- and I‘m talking Restaurant Festival crowded -- in the early hours of the day when everybody is angling for the best looking squash and the freshest loaf of French bread.

Then, every December, as the wind blows the last leaf from the last branch and the sun struggles to keep the temperature above 40, they shut the place down. You‘ve seen it coming but it still breaks your heart, like the cruelest end to the grandest love affair you can imagine.

Winter in West Chester is dark, but it is made even darker when you wake on Saturday morning and realize you‘re going to have to get your mixed greens from the supermarket veggie case instead of the friendly guy with the Amish straw hat.No more chow chow and canned peaches from Lizzie‘s Bakery. No more whoopee pies, either. Gone is the chance of scoring a wedge of garlic and chive cheese from the guys at Oak Shade Cheeses. Not a bloody chance of resupplying the Lemon Calendula soap bars from Ellen April soaps.It strikes me as criminal that the good things in life in West Chester have to go into hibernation just because the calendar page turns. In my home town, Cincinnati, there‘s a farmers‘ market that is open year-round because the city decided to build it an enclosed space.

So I was thinking that perhaps it‘s time for the powers that be in West Chester to start pressuring those developers who want to build 40-story hotels on Chestnut Street to include prime space for the market in the building so the growers could operate from New Years to Christmas.

That‘s right. I say perhaps it‘s time for everyone to demand a growers market provision in the redevelopment authority‘s bylaws. I say we speak out with petitions and letters and late-night prank telephone calls and e-mail Internet blogging campaigns.

Right? I ask Keith Fahnestock, owner of Fahnestock Fruits, the market‘s gateway table stand.

”Well, you get kinda glad when it‘s done,“ Keith replied, somewhat sheepishly, about the approaching closing date. ”It‘s nice to take a break.“

Oh. Well. Maybe you‘re right.

Anyway, see you in the springtime.

No 'Bucks in the Boro

This appeared on Sunday, Nov. 5, 2006

At the Canine Care Center in Frazer, they advertise their services right on the front windows. To wit: They provide dog grooming, doggie day care and wonderful, exotic dog food, all at reasonable prices.

And in addition, they proudly proclaim that they have coffee, and it‘s really, really good.

Leave aside the question of whether the coffee is for the dog owners or the dogs. What I want to point out is that the availability of coffee has gotten out of control.You can get a cup of coffee anywhere.

You can get one in the supermarket. You can get one at the gas station. You can get one at the optometrist‘s. And, from what I now learn, you can get it while your Pomeranian is being clipped.

I suppose that this is representative of the fascination America has developed with coffee. My father used to get up in the middle of the night to fix himself a big hot cup of coffee -- caffeinated, mind you. I found that strange, but in 2006, I can only assume that the general populace would not blink an eye.

My boss, after all, doesn‘t leave the cozy confines of his office here in LocalLand without his stainless steel coffee container. Lord knows, he might get trapped between the news desk and the sports desk and need a shot of joe.

I say this to get to the big news: Last month, Starbucks announced they had set a goal of having 40,000 stores worldwide -- 27,500 more than now. They apparently need more stores because the coffee drinkers of the world can‘t be bothered with searching more than five square feet for their next cup.

The story that I read about this noted that in Seattle there is an office building that has a Starbucks on the first floor, a Starbucks on the 40th floor, and a Starbucks across the street. In Vancouver, Canada, there are Starbucks on opposite sides of the street at one intersection.

As Launi Skinner, senior vice president of Starbucks‘ store development, put it: ”Going to the other side of the street can be a barrier."

So Starbucks is going to have a barrista in 40,000 locations across the globe, with the exception, of course, of one place. West Chester.



That‘s right. It‘s almost 2007, and still no mocha lattes from the ’Bucks in W.C.

P.S. to Launi Skinner: Come on, lady! You can‘t find a slot in your quest for world domination to put in a store somewhere in the four corners of the best borough on the planet? The fact that there are Starbucks outlets surrounding the town doesn‘t cut it.

If you can‘t expect Vancouverans to cross the street to grab a grande, how can you expect us to hop in the Subuaru and high-tail it on over to West Goshen? And don‘t tell me about Route 202 in Birmingham. In Seattle, they only have to ride the elevator 20 floors for Ethiopean Kampuchea Roast. There are stinkin‘ traffic jams on 202!

Actually, I shouldn‘t worry about this; I‘m mostly concerned for my friends and neighbors and bosses. See, I don‘t drink coffee. I drink Irish tea.

I get it at the mall.

The Sweet Smell of Excess

This appeared on Sept. 17, 2006


Ah, the coming of fall in West Chester! A hint of crispness in the air, wind-blown leaves appearing on the cool brick sidewalks, college students rushing to and from their drunken par ..., er, classes -- all are sure signs that the autumnal equinox can't be too far away.

Not to mention, of course, the biggest local signal that fall is just around the corner - the annual Chester County Restaurant Festival in West Chester. With its 60 different restaurants - serving everything from hot dogs to crab cakes, as the brochure says - its more than 100 craft and organization booths, live bands and a popular beer and wine court, it always brings thousands of enthusiastic Chester Countians to the shining jewel called Gay Street on a (hopefully) warm and sunny Sunday afternoon.

And to each and every one of you 10- to 15-thousand visitors, we longtime borough residents have but one thing to say:

Call us when you've gone home!

Not to put too fine a point on it, but today's restaurant festival is about as popular to us in the borough as Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are at the Aniston family Thanksgiving dinner table.

Take, for instance, my friend Ruth Wright Hurford, birthright West Chestrian and ex-catcher with the Daily Local News Headliners Co-ed Softball Team, circa 1985. Since she's spent nearly every minute of her waking life in the borough, you figure Ruth is the sort of person who would know how the natives act. Think of her as sort of the Baedecker Guide to West Chester.

I checked with Ruth last week and found out that, true to form, she won't be dining today on the Gay Street pavement. She'll be around the corner at a friend's house engaging in the last great barbecue of the season. She gets the ambiance of the day, the flavorful aromas of the festival grills, yet none of the waiting and slow shuffling from block to block.

Make no mistake about it, it's the very fact that the festival is so popular that makes it so disliked by borough residents. The lines! The crowds! All we want is a crab cake and a hot dog and to go home and watch the second half of the Eagles loss/game. Instead, we're pushed up against some dog-leash-holding stockbroker from Developmentland who can't decide on whether to get the crab cake sandwich or the crab cake ice cream cone, while his blond second trophy wife pesters him about the fresh fruit crab cake cup. Or whatever.

I don't know about you, but if there is a line of more than five people at the gates of heaven, I'm going to straight to hell.

I've written and edited stories about the festival since I arrived here in the early 1980s and used to look forward to the event. In one of its first incarnations, the restaurant festival was when about 15 restaurateurs would push a few tables onto closed-off Gay Street, fire up the Webers, Donohue's would empty the tavern of tables and chairs, and the ale would flow evenly with the tartar sauce on the crab cakes.

It was a simpler, more sanguine time, when you could stand on the corner of High and Gay Streets with a cup of cold beer in your hand, chatting amiably with the mayor and the police chief. If you stand on that corner with a cup of cold beer in your hand, chatting amiably with the mayor and the police chief these days, you might get 11 1/2 to 23 months of probation and a lecture from Judge Gavin.

But don't let our ambivalence to the festival deter you from having fun. We'll survive.

By 10 o'clock tonight, Gay Street will be free of litter and empty of restaurant booths and by early Monday we will be able to take our morning constitutional from Matlack to New Street without being squeezed like a Philadelphia building contractor.

You'll be gone, and we'll be here. Enjoying our crab cakes.

Waiting For The Bell

This column appered April 23, 2006

I can't wait for the bell to ring.
That bell is the signal that the West Chester Growers Market is open for business once again, and consequently aural notice that my Saturday mornings will return to the enjoyable routine that has been under suspension since the final days of autumn.
The West Chester Growers Market, you see, is a seasonable exercise. It opens the first weekend in May and closes in December. The stalls and canopies that line the parking lot at the corner of North Church and West Chestnut disappear, gone into hibernation, darkening the very world we live in.
That is a crying shame, in my opinion, because there is no finer way to spend a few hours on a Saturday morning than shopping for good, fresh food and bumping into friends you haven't seen since, well, the week before. The experience combines the small town aesthetic of a bunch of colorful characters plying their wares in an otherwise non-descript parking lot with the innate sense that pretty soon you are going to find yourself munching on a good old fashioned tomato and mayonnaise sandwich.
Or, perhaps find yourself opening a jar of blueberry jam that came from Betty's Kitchen, a legend in Southern Chester County, and which you know goes very well on that French bread the guy sells from out the back of his truck. Or maybe you just want to go with that peach smoothie you can whip up with help from one of the half dozen stands that are showing off the best peaches this side of Atlanta, Ga.
I'm not alone.
I know this because the men in my neighborhood take an immense pride in rallying to be the first to hit the market and get their shopping done before the clock strikes 10. As early as I try to make it the few blocks up Church Street to the market, I still catch them coming home, their bags already full and their minds clearly focused on lunch.
I'd accuse them of camping out on the front steps of the Friends Association building across the street from the market, but we in the news businesses don't like to go throwing wild implications around. Plus, their families might object - not to them staying out all Friday night, but to my reporting their conduct to the public.
But I say this May-December romance we have with the market is a situation up with which we should not put. If you are dating the prom queen, after all, you shouldn't have to give up her companionship just because the calendar reads January and not June.
You know me, I don't ask for much. So I don't think it's too much of a request that the powers that be at Borough Hall take a break from deciding how much I'm going to have to pay to throw away the fresh flowers I pick up from the growers' market and dig into the rainy day fund for a permanent growers' home. I say the borough funds construction of an enclosed market space where those who want to, can buy and sell 12 months of the year.
It wouldn't cost much, I bet, and the loss of the parking spaces won't upset anyone. After all, the borough now has more parking garages than Irish-theme bars - something we can all be duly proud of. The enclosed market would bring in more merchants, I suggest, and none would object to paying a small fee for the honor of making my life that much more fulfilled an extra five months of the year.
They could still have the bell outside, too.