A Saturday in-home brunch invite afforded me the opportunity to hit another green market in the city, this time the one housed in one of my favorite areas: Southport. KKagogo had offered to whip up some french toast for me at her great apartment near the dog beach, and invited both me and pooch over for some vittles and R&R. Impressed as I have been by the seasonal produce lately, I offered to bring over a fruit salad. Southport, while not necessarily on the way to KK's was at least closer than Lincoln Park. I figured, given its great collection of pubs and cafes, that the green marked there would have some pretty fantastic offerings.
It's important to recognize that the Southport Green Market is only in its second year of existence, so I guess they're still trying to get their act together. It is housed on the grounds of Blaine School, right in the middle of all the action, and across the street from the Music Box Theater, Chicago's north side indie cinema capital. Wrigley Field is about four blocks due east. Hipsters, strollers, and hipsters with strollers containing baby hipsters abound. As do a pretty solid khaki-and-polo shirt set.
The market consisted of about seven to eight vendors, of which two sold fresh produce, one sold cheeses, and another had eastern European pastries. The others sold pottery and purses, a few flowers, and I can't even remember what else. Maybe insurance, or time shares. Florida swampland. Rainbows and promises. Whatever. Not the best selection.
I picked up a few Michigan peaches and a pint of blueberries, both of which were of very good quality. Even though I was on my way to brunch, I also picked up a pain au chocolat (croissant with a bar of chocolate baked in), because, well, it looked good and why do I have to explain myself to the likes of you? This ended up being fortuitous, as KK called shortly thereafter and begged a raincheck due a rough night out with friends the previous evening.
I think the nicest thing about the Southport Green Market is the setting. Blaine School and its surroundings have obviously undergone a good deal of redevelopment lately, and there are a couple of playgrounds and a nice greenspace that were being entertainingly enjoyed by the hipster and preppie offspring. They also had a nice doggie bowl with fresh water and plenty of treats for the four-legged patrons. Not to mention plenty of outposts for a Bloody Mary or espresso doppio in which to drown your sorrows over the fact that you're still going to have to give up that sweet parking space outside your building in order to trek out to Whole Foods for those cepes or daikon you were hoping to score. Such are the trials of the bourgeois.
In the middle of all this stood me, with dog on leash and a backpack containing poop baggies and a bottle with the last few drams of balsamic vinegar I bought a few years back in Florence. It was hot, over 90 degrees at 10AM already and the man mane was being blown hither and thither by the breeze. I was confused, disappointed, and a little disoriented. Then I looked over and saw a pair of blondes looking my way and smiling.
"This is good," I thought.
Then they started giggling.
"This is not so good," I thought.
I looked down to see my charming pup, leg hiked, relieving himself on basket of cantelopes. So much for sophistication. I shot a nervous glance over at the vendor, who was negotiating a sale, and beat a hasty retreat. From what I could tell, it looked like Atlas had missed contact with the actual fruit, but had succeeded in creating a soggy corner of the basket.
Later, on the drive home, I stuck my greedy paw into the bag of blueberries and started liberally sampling. After about the second handful it occurred to me that if my dog could piss on this guy's cantelopes, who knows what had happened to these blueberries? The rest waited until we got home.
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