New Direction


Reading Market Philedelphia.

As beef sandwiches go, this one was pretty good.  Sitting at a counter in a warehouse-turned market, I sat quietly as my friend complained to the owner.

“I don’t know what it is.  You get away from Chicago and it’s like Giardinara doesn’t exist.  I mean this sandwich is good, don’t get me wrong.  But a little Giardinara would take it to a whole new level!  I’m telling you, next time I come I’m bringing a jar.  You’ll see what I’m talking about.”

He’s Italian so he talks with his hands.  Seen from a distance, he’s conducting a symphony with a greasy napkin.

The commotion of the market has been constant.  From across the aisle the fish monger occasionally yells to his helper further down the counter.  At the butcher a group of firemen shop the meat and place a large order.

In the space an arms length away a man in a dark suit appears where there once was no one.  On his lapel is a small American flag.  From his ear twirls a pigtail of white wire.  Then came the cameras.  Still and video all walking backwards in a swarm.

As I wipe my hands with yet another napkin a small man with white hair puts out his hand.  I shake it with a head nod, “Mr. Sanders…”

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