Greetings from the Gastronomical Capital of the Universe
by Dan Taylor

While I'm no farmer, I have a certain, undeniable love for the indoor/outdoor farm markets of my native and adoptive homes.

My first love was the much-maligned (and soon to be shuttered) Pennsauken Mart located just outside Camden, NJ. This slightly sleazy outpost was my first introduction to a world beyond my mother's usual forays to chains like Two Guys and Pathmark. The Mart (as it became known) was where we'd go to score booze before movies, pick up ridiculously cheap vinyl, and avoid the food at any and all costs. If it wasn't hermetically sealed, it wasn't touching these lips.

The Mart softened over the years, cracking down on underage liquor purchases and closing the venerable Crazy Eddie's Beef & Beer, a pole-packed go-go joint where Miss Vicky – the former Mrs. Tiny Tim – once shook her post-divorce money makers. Still, if you wanted to score some Phillipino martial arts flicks or potentially hazardous knock-off action figures, The Mart was your one-stop shop.

By the time I reached college I was regularly taking in the sights and smells of Philadelphia's famous Reading Terminal Market. Opened in 1892, Reading Terminal got its reputation from the Pennsylvania Dutch merchants that sold their wares in its stalls. When the Reading Railroad ceased operation in the 1970s, Reading Terminal started a long, slow slide into what can only be described as dismal, dangerous territory. Once surrounded by porn shops and tattoo parlors, it has regained a somewhat gentrified luster in recent years with the opening of the Philadelphia Convention Center across the street.

During the height of my full-blown "spend every Saturday at garage sales and flea markets" mania, The Berlin and Columbus Farmer's Markets were perpetual stops. Located at opposite ends of my weekly loop, their indoor shops hawking wicker crafts and paperbacks with the covers torn off held little interest. Instead, it was the seemingly endless sea of outside tables that drew me again and again.

Since moving to Baltimore a few years ago I've dabbled in some of the area flea markets and indoor marts, hoping to rekindle the flame ignited in me all those years ago. Some have flirted with a brief spark, yet none have left me wanting more.

Until now.

It's said that after visiting Baltimore's bustling Lexington Market, the great poet and essayist Ralph Waldo Emerson declared Charm City "The Gastronomical Capital of the Universe." Though that proclamation sounds a bit more like Don King than one of this country's most influential authors, I was willing to put my trust in ol' Wally.

Armed only with a solid hunger and a handful of cash, Chris and I set out on a cold and blustery winter afternoon to see the sights and sample the wares of the famed Lexington Market.

Lex Market – as fellow food buff and Smile Hon editor WP Tandy refers to it – boasts the claim of being the country's oldest, continuously operating market. And with a history that dates back to 1783, it's a pretty safe boast. After operating for several years as the Western Precinct Market the location got its current name in 1818 after the city expanded its boundaries.

By the early 1900s, local papers were declaring the Market as nothing less than the "epicurean capital" of Baltimore, packed with produce from surrounding states and as far south as Georgia. Quite frankly, based on what I've read, Lexington Market was more than just a turn-of-the-century foodie's stomping ground – it may have been the very heart and soul of the city. The Market and the surrounding streets became a thriving scene of commerce and community, with social leaders and street musicians rubbing elbows with preachers and politicians.

That heart and soul burned to the ground in March of 1949, destroying millions of dollars of equipment and merchandise. While plans to modernize the facility had been in place for years it took a six-alarm blaze to push it into the modern age.

As we enter through the doors of the Market at lunchtime on a Saturday in 2005 it'd be hard to miss its continuing significance to area residents. The sound is almost deafening as a boogie-woogie band pounds out catchy standards to an appreciative (mostly male) audience that surrounds the stage, nodding their heads in time to the music, tapping their feet and animatedly conversing with their neighbors. Beer flows from the taps at nearby stalls and the whole scene looks more like a party that's about to kick into high gear than an indoor market in a metropolitan city.

We make our way through the maze of stalls, continually eyeing up what might be good for lunch. Epicurean options include everything from chicken (not just chicken, but Super Fried Chicken) and sausage (from Sausage Master) to delis (the shrimp salad at Mary Mervis comes highly recommended) and more.

If you'd rather swing by Lex Market for something to cook at home, well, the possibilities seem endless. Every part of every animal under the sun appears readily available, with one stall proclaiming its rightful place as your "Headquarters for Fresh Hog Maws and Chitterlings!" Even some animals you'd never think to eat (muskrat, raccoon) or have even heard of (marsh rabbit?) are bagged and packed in ice for your next culinary adventure.

Walking through the Market, it hits me that it's a mix of what Reading Terminal was like before its gentrification with a sprinkle of Pennsauken Mart sleaze thrown in for good measure. This curious blend is driven home with emphasis when we cross the street from the main building to what can only be described as its seedier, smellier, less trustworthy cousin. This annex has little to offer, though a VHS/CD/DVD stall peddling what may or may not be bootlegs and compilations of extreme pro wrestling matches is attracting its fair share of traffic.

The whole place has the nostril-piercing smell of a campground bathroom and we duck out a side door into the cold, but fresh, afternoon air. Our rounds complete, we head back to the main Market for lunch at Faidley Seafood, whose raw bar (with beer "for customers only") is packed two deep.

The menu on the cooked side features a wide range of seafood, including steakfish, lake trout, catfish, coddie, haddock and more. But it's Faidley's world famous crab cake that has attracted us - and brought the eatery a worldwide reputation. We hop into the cafeteria style line and place our order for an all lump crab cake with a side of fries and some mac 'n cheese (coming in at a not cheap $16.95).

Standing in line is nothing short of a comic floorshow as the workers playfully interact with the customers and take potshots at each another. When our order of mac 'n cheese makes its way to our plate, the guy in line next to me leans over and gets an eyeful.

"That looks good," he sighs, half to me, half to himself. "I want to order some mac 'n cheese," he yells to the cashier as we try to round up our drinks.

"You want mac 'n cheese?," she asks, wriggling her nose as if she's just smelled something bad.

"Yeah," he replies as we both notice the look of distaste that quickly disappears from her face. "What's wrong with it?"

"Yeah," I chime in. "Should I have ordered something else?"

"Oh no," she shoots back, ringing up the next order with fingernails longer than my pinky. "It's fine, I just don't liiiiike it."

As if to emphasize her disdain for the orange-coated mound of pasta she wriggles her nose again. Looking down at the scribble on his placemat she asks my partner in mac 'n cheese, "What's the $4 mean?"

"That's how much you're supposed to take off my order," he shoots back and the bursts out laughing as if it's the funniest thing he's heard all day.

I'm too hungry to take part in more witty banter and we head for the long tables that sit between the raw bar and the door. We've just beaten the rush as a line stretches from the cashier, past the order takers and back to the entrance.

The fries are strictly of the institutional variety and the mac 'n cheese, though good, isn't worth writing home about.

The crab cake? Well, it's another story. I've had a couple good offerings since relocating, but none come anywhere near the moist and creamy, meaty, slightly tangy crab cake we devour. I can easily see why this knee-weakening lump of heaven has garnered its impressive reputation.

With lunch in our bellies and plenty of muskrat already in the freezer, we head out into the cold and I begin wondering how soon I can make it back for more.