Philadelphia food writer Joy Manning apostrophizes the Italian Market:
Dear Ninth Street:
I remember the first time we met, when I was a food-phobic suburban kid. Your hanging rabbit carcasses, hog’s heads, and whole fish stacked high in open sidewalk-facing containers rendered me speechless with anxiety.
Still, I loved your grease-streaked pizza slices, strong and stinky cheese samples, and crunchy, rich, chocolate chip cannoli. What I noticed even then was that you whispered something I couldn’t understand into my small ears about the future I would have and the food writer I would eventually become. You were giving me hints about how to be myself.