By Jeff Balke
By Aaron Reiss
By Angelica Leicht
By Dianna Wray
By Aaron Reiss
By Camilo Smith
By Craig Malisow
By Jeff Balke
So what do you think of the concept?" demands Morris O. Jenkins Jr., the barest trace of anxiety invading his upbeat cadences. The youthful Texas Agricultural Extension agent and urban-gardening specialist nods toward the vaguely surreal tableau unfolding on Westwood Mall's atrium balcony. Right there in front of The Gap, a line of primly green-skirted tables offers up a modest cornucopia of fresh vegetables and baked goods. Below, amid potted ficus trees, the plumed horses of a rococo Venetian carousel plunge in their endless circles; in the background, Tina Turner rasps "What's Love Got To Do With It?"
It is a September Saturday morning, and "the concept" -- an improbable farmers' market inside that profoundly Houstonian institution, an air-conditioned shopping mall -- has shrunk to three vendors from a summertime high of eight. Two of the vendors (Jenkins included) happen to be agents from Texas A&M's extension service, which took the state's fledgling farmers' market program under its wing after Jim Hightower's consumer-friendly Texas Department of Agriculture regime was toppled by the Republicans. But Morris Jenkins, clear of eye, high of cheekbone, optimistic of heart, remains undeterred. "The concept! It'll work!" he insists, fluffing up a crate of green beans and rearranging the wax-free cucumbers procured from two Spring-area farmers he works with. "These things have gone over big in places like Seattle, and they can be a big thing here."
As even the eternally positive Jenkins would have to admit, though, pioneering urban farmers' markets in Houston is no bed of catnip. Bringing locally grown produce to suburban malls may be a cleverly contrarian notion in a town where you must buy in bulk at the outdoor Airline Market or resign yourself to the grocery store. And it's certainly smart PR for Westwood Mall, where a couple of incidents of violent crime have heightened the need for warm-and-fuzzy promotions. But the experiment that started out with such a bang in June, when vendors were often sold out by noon, faltered during the dog-day lull in the local growing season. Confusion about the schedule siphoned off customers. (Originally set to continue through September 5, the market took a recess during August and resumed after Labor Day.) Removal of the mall's big sign touting the market didn't help. Neither did the fact that some of the vendors whose presence had made the market such an interesting grab bag grew discouraged and drifted off.
Now that the Gulf Coast's second growing season is under way, Jenkins and his extension-agent colleague Arnold Brown are determined to hold down the fort until the prodigals -- vendors and customers both -- return. "We put out public-service announcements this week to encourage consumers," says the bespectacled Brown, an earnest apostle of fresh vegetables who is busy shelling with sacramental reverence the purple-hull peas from his 25-acre Rosenberg farm. The sharp, sour scent of Brown's green peppers penetrates the conditioned air; his pile of Hempstead cantaloupes perfumes everything within a 4-foot radius. A passing shopper in a sari slows, sniffs, halts in her tracks, startled out of her mall-induced cocoon.
Around the corner at Jenkins' display, a parade of passersby is engaging in supremely un-mall-like shopping behavior. They have reverted to vegetable selection as an old-fashioned contact sport requiring the pawing of melons, the hefting of yams, the rummaging through cucumbers and the feeling up of zucchini. Two Chinese matrons scrutinize fat baby eggplants; a Hispanic woman dwarfed by her Chanel tote bag staggers off with a week's worth of produce. Elderly mall-walkers in athletic shoes and Bermuda shorts interrupt their perambulations to pinch vine-ripened tomatoes so red and fruity that they can be eaten straight out of the hand. "We could make tomato sandwiches," a woman speculates to her mate. Alice Davis, a regular from the Westwood neighborhood, waxes nostalgic over some white-fleshed peaches she found here early this summer. "Ripe peaches," she testifies vehemently, "that you wouldn't use to lob a mugger in the head."
Lured from a store window full of Mighty Morphin Power Rangers by a table arrayed with gorgeous pastries and loaves of bread, two small African-American kids confer with young Spanish baker Domingo Diaz. As one bites into a buttery cinnamon roll, a beatified expression lights up her face; Le Moulin European Bakery has won its newest convert. Diaz and his wife, Sylvia, use the Westwood market as a sort of outreach effort for their deep-Meyerland bakery, spreading their gospel of sour mother-doughs and 10-hour fermentation and wrecking diets with their elegantly glazed raspberry twists and tart apple strudel.
Vendors like the Diazes place the Westwood project in the new, eclectic generation of farmers' markets. On any given Saturday at Westwood, shoppers might encounter a Latin American entrepreneur plying his line of habanero-based sauces or volunteers from the Willow River organic farm, a residential community for the retarded, selling their herb plants, produce and a green-tomato salsa that's not for amateurs. Dividends like these -- plus guest appearances by such locals as a Conroe blueberry farmer selling 4-pound sacks at pick-your-own prices -- send patrons reeling off the escalators with unplanned burdens in tow; laden with funky plastic bags, they can be seen wrestling their booty through the mall doors. They look as if they think they're getting away with something.