Ode to Rossman Farms

I've been away for less than a week and I'm feeling the pangs of withdrawal.

This blog has featured produce markets in the Philippines, Morocco, Mexico, Columbia, and other locations. Here's a market a little closer to home. 

Rossman Farms is located on a gritty corner on the outskirts of Sunset Park in Brooklyn. "Brooklyn" is sometimes used as brand or a shorthand term for a certain kind of artisinal authenticity, but this patch of Brooklyn under the Brooklyn Queens Expressway overpass features porn shops and live poultry sales, along with schools, a church and an astonishing mix of residential and industrial uses. Rossman occupies the whole building, which enables them to buy in bulk and store their cheaply obtained produce. 

Not everything is cheap, but sometimes the prices are jaw dropping.

Granted, I inadvertently stuck my finger in one pear's oozing wound and squealed as if I had been stuck myself. Yuck! I tossed the offending pear out and continued to fill my bag. Velvety roasted pears, the solution to When Bad Produce Happens to Good People/pear division, awaited. Roasting (the blemished and wizened) and freezing (the about-to-be-overripe) were the fates I had in mind for several specimens of Rossman's clearance sale area. I normally never bother with produce sale graveyards, since many vendors typically hold on to produce until the point of rot. I've bought only lightly from Rossman's sale bin, but I enjoy checking it out every time I'm in the store. I was pleasantly surprised to see some broccoli, baby arugula and mandarin oranges in the sale area that were in very good shape, requiring no ingenuity to make them palatable. Part of the game is guessing the outlandishly cheap price for the good stuff. 

Most of my shopping at Rossman's is more mainstream, taking advantage of the store's appreciation of New York's glorious diversity. Eavesdrop on Rossman's owners, and hear them slip effortlessly between Hebrew, Spanish and English. Muslims in traditional garb make up a significant portion of their customer base, and Mexicans looking for nopales, tomatillos and poblano peppers are doted upon. 

And of course I also take advantage of the regular crop of nice vegetables.

Did I mention that Rossman never closes? It's open 24 hours every day of the year. You never know when you need that parsnip.

I checked out the store's Yelp reviews to see if I was alone in my enchantment. There was some grumbling - this is New York, after all - but also paeans like these: 

A fresh vegetable & fruit stand in the middle of factories and industrial buildings, Rossman offers a large array of fresh fruit and vegetables at a low cost. The fruit & vegetables outside is usually days away from going bad so that's where you'll find the cheapest prices. Thanks to Ross I've eaten fruit I never knew existed, I'm opening my horizons lol. -- Chica O

I finally discovered Rossman's (thanks, Yelp) and what a blissful discovery it has been. The location is certainly a bit peculiar-desolate 3rd Ave with its adult video and liquor stores -- but provides ample room for a really good selection of fruits and veggies. As others have noted, I was astonished by how far $20 went here. The 24 hour/all credit cards accepted bit is icing on the cake.   -- Lydia N.

Mike Rossman is a Fruits & Vegetables Genius. He has built an empire that takes the best produce from all over the world. And the prices are surprisingly very low even if one compares them to Brighton Beach area or Ave U or Chinatown  in Brooklyn. [Editorial note: We know Chinatown and Brighton Beach, but we obviously must check out Avenue U!] This is my new favorite one-stop shop for a great fruit - vegetable shopping. I highly recommend this place to everyone I know. Superb job, Mike!  --Kosta R.

I can't wait to go back.

What's a nice farmers market like you doing in a place like this?

The farmers market had some good stuff. 

 

 

Wonderful peaches, both yellow and white. Nectarines. Concord grapes. Apples. Tomatoes. Berries.

The vendors spoke Russian, not that surprising, given that Brighton Beach, New York's most Russian neighborhood, was only about a mile away. But the market's wares were less noteworthy than its location: near the boardwalk of Coney Island, an area more celebrated for freaks than leeks.

(And certainly the food item most emblematic of Coney Island - especially because Coney Island Whitefish isn't actually a food item - is a Nathan's Famous hot dog, still going strong after nearly 100 years.)

I came to Coney Island to watch Minor League baseball: the Brooklyn Cyclones, an affiliate of the NY Mets, were battling their cross-Narrows rivals, the Staten Island Yankees. Wholesome, carefully arranged produce was just about the last thing I expected to encounter in front of the Cyclones' MCU Stadium.

Despite the typical stadium rules against bringing in food, the guard let me bring in my newly purchased produce. "We say no snacks, but I gotta admit you're not going to find fruit in there," he said, jerking a thumb toward the concession stands. Hot dogs and fries were as popular inside the stadium as they were just outside of it.

After the Cyclones lost to the Staten Island Yankees, we took in some of Coney Island's other attractions.

When I last went on the Cyclone. I felt lucky to have my teeth still in my head at the ride's end. But this old-school (circa 1927) rollercoaster has been joined by newer rides like the Thunderbolt, Sling Shot, Zenobie, and Soarin' Eagle, variations on the theme of dropping you from a high point really fast and probably shaking you upside down a couple of times for good measure. While we were watching the game we could see the Thunderbolt car making its way up on the track (and if you go to the game picture above, you can see the ant-like car beginning its vertical path upwards in the upper right-hand corner; the track's super-sharp descent immediately follows). More tellingly, we could follow its path by the passengers' screams, which we had no trouble hearing over the din of the game. (To get a sense of these rides, just click on the respective link for a virtual front row seat on each ride.) 

 
There were no shortage of screams as we strolled around the park, contemplating the long lines and dithering about whether to join them (maybe next time). I was impressed by the sighting of a White Castle tucked in among the rides. Who thought that the experience of being catapulted 150 feet in the air at 90 miles/hour, then twisted into a couple of somersaults, would be enhanced by a greasy burger? 

But to be fair even the lovely farmers market peaches wouldn't be very appealing then either. 


 

Grow Your Own

The determination some folks have to grow a lawn, despite challenging conditions - arid land, tiny plots - is so strong that it requires psychological insight. One compelling theory suggest that human beings possess a deep impulse to recreate the African savanna, the cradle of human existence, by cultivating a lawn.

Are my sister and I similarly driven by powerful forces in our pursuit of the Rockaways gardens or our youth?

Growing up, we lived in a house with a backyard. Our home was 9 blocks from the ocean, barely within the New York City limits. Our backyard had toads, roses, honeysuckle and best of all, a fig tree, courtesy of our next-door neighbors who had planted a tree right up against the lot line. Every summer would bring a bumper crop, with zero effort on our part. Our generous neighbors were happy to share the bounty - a very good thing, considering that most jurisdictions accept the legal theory that whoever's lot houses the tree trunk owns all the fruit as well. Thank you, Stern family!

Of course, I fantasized about having a similar agricultural experience on my Manhattan balcony. Last year I bought a small fig tree at the Union Square Greenmarket. It developed lush foliage but no fruit. I wrapped it like a mummy to withstand the winter's frost, and have been tending it it carefully since springtime. Here's how it's going so far: 

Sigh. The weed in the corner is obviously doing a lot better than the fig tree is. 

I'd blame the container the fig tree is in, but my sister's two fig plants - one from the Union Square Greenmarket and the other from a botanical center - aren't doing much better, and hers are in the ground in her garden.

A gardening guru told her not to worry; dead-looking fig trees were capable of rebounding in early summer and even bearing abundant fruit by summer's end.

In a an ode to Brooklyn's fig trees, the food writer Melissa Clark attested to this phenomenon, writing,

[I was told that] fig trees are forgiving; if they die in winter, they can come back from the roots and bear fruit. I can vouch for this. That first winter, I wrapped my fig tree in old blankets, giving it a bucket for a hat. In spring, I unwrapped the tree. Everything else in the garden flourished. The mint and lemon balm grew tall and fragrant. The roses budded. But the poor fig tree remained adamantly brown, and I was scared I had killed it. Finally, in June, I gave up hope and lopped off the branches to stake my tomatoes. Then in July, I noticed my tomato stakes were pushing out leaves, and the stump in the barrel had started to grow. Suddenly, instead of one fig tree, I had six. I kept the hardiest of the lot and gave the others away. Now, my tree is laden with darkening fruit, branches bending under the weight. Every year the yield increases. First I got 2 figs, then 5, then 20. Now it's too many to count.

So we keep watering and keep harboring hope. 

Meanwhile, the farmers in Union Square have gone into floral overdrive, taunting me a bit with their lush greenery.

One plant in particular continues to catch my eye.

So far I'm holding strong and just tending to the fig tree I have rather than buying a new one. Really, I have no reason to think a replacement plant would necessarily fare any better. 

Besides, if I want a hardy plant, I know what to grow - a plant chock full of Vitamin C and calcium and more beta-carotene than carrots. 

And on a 16th story balcony, feral cat pee shouldn't be much of an issue.