Vegetable Woman

She’s out on the sidewalk every morning building pyramids of the day’s fruits and vegetables.

She opens earlier, closes later, and operates on Sundays when the supermarkets are closed. Whatever it takes to survive.

Her shop straddles the typical Barcelona intersection with angled corners which make it feel like a small plaza.

The facing of her store is no more 20 feet across. Its inside is lit by institutional ceiling units and there is zero attempt at appetite appeal. She writes the prices by hand.

The fruits and vegetables aren’t photo-shoot perfect like we expect in the U.S. They’re picked to be eaten within a shorter time and you soon realize they’re much more delicious for it.

I’m sorry to report that even after I’d shopped at her place dozens of times during my stays in Barcelona, the owner simply didn’t like me.

On my first visit four years earlier I bought just one single plum, and because of my disastrous Spanish, she had to slowly repeat the amount I owed. I was new to paying in euros so she ended up picking the right coins out of my hands. It’s also possible she doesn’t approve of a man wearing shorts.

But to her credit she treated me with professional courtesy.

I once took a leafy vegetable to the counter wondering how to use it. She pointed to a bottle of olive oil and flipped her hands like she was turning a skillet. She called it ‘endibia’ and I sauteed it with garlic.

Another time she refused to ring up the tomatoes I had bagged. She frowned and pointed to others that were half-green, half-red and totally misshapen. I ate three of them in one sitting.

But for all of that the woman never did warm up to me.

On my last night in Barcelona I told her I was going home and would like to take a photo. That was the first and the only time she showed me a smile.

I wished her luck. She wished me well.