The Bloor Fruit Market

Where the senses are overpowered and bike baskets are overfilled

I was pedalling along my usual commute route, absent mindedly following a woman cycling in an emerald-green dress, when I approached Manning Avenue and felt my usual dilemma arise. To Bloor Fruit Market or not to Bloor Fruit Market?

Few institutions in Toronto have as strong a gravitational pull as the Bloor Fruit Market. During the summer, the siren’s call is particularly strong, the smell of strawberries and plums and nectarines travelling down Bloor Street, beckoning me to park my bike and take a gander.

This past winter was unusually long, with rain and cold extending far past what one could deem decent. So, when last Tuesday I saw pints of blueberries on sale, I was powerless to resist participating in this warm weather ritual. I hoisted my minivan of a bike onto the sidewalk and took a deep breath, promising myself I would not get any more produce than what would fit in my rear basket, alongside my workbag.

My browsing at first was dignified enough. I didn’t even reach for a basket because who? Me? No, I was just there for a quick few things, nothing more. The berries drew my attention, sat atop crates, separated in little green cartons. I grabbed a small box of raspberries. Well, two, it was cheaper if you got two. Years of experience have taught me that, unless I’m to decorate a cheesecake, two pints of berries is all I should purchase in one go, as it’s all I could hope to eat in a 24-hour period unless aided by Gyan.

Precariously stacking the two cardboard packets in the nook of my elbow, I reached over two women who had taken a seat on the floor to best discern the quality of apricots and tore off a green plastic bag. The sign above the plums read “JUICY AND SWEET,” and I wasn’t going to argue. The Bloor Fruit Market wouldn’t lie to me about something like that, it just wouldn’t. Using my chin to stabilize the raspberries and allowing the plums to dangle off my pinky I spotted my greatest temptation yet: a cut quarter of a watermelon, wrapped in plastic. I could spot no seeds, no discoloration, no unevenness in its flesh. It was a deep, vibrant pink, looked to be crisp. Damn it. I worked to coax the watermelon onto my forearm and palm, my right arm becoming an unstable, exuberant surface facilitated by a deep exercise in denial.

Having only worked the outside perimeter of the market, I resolved once again to be sensible, to think of the little space left in my bike basket, to visualize the final hill before I reached home, and how much I’d resent extra weight in my back basket. I made my way inside, shuffling along the flower wall and trying hard not to look at the dewy cruciferous vegetables calling my name, promising soups and asking to be turned into eclectic, elaborate salads.

The queue was, as could have been predicted by anyone but me, lengthy. It seemed like everyone else had also had the idea to stop for a bit of after-work shopping. A woman in an oatmeal linen dress guarded her basket, now resting on the floor, as she stretched to get a closer look at particularly sumptuous looking baby bok choy. A man a little further ahead seemed to get a full body chill and turn around with a look of terror on his face. He pivoted, sticking one foot near his basket, and, when this did not suffice, made meaningful eye contact with us over his spot in line and bobbed and weaved away before returning with a shifty look and a red cabbage. I nodded solemnly at his actions and judged him not. Looking over at deep green kale leaves, I understood his impulse, and would too have given into it if not for the limited capacity of my rear basket. The line slowly inched forward and I eventually paid (debit or cash only) at the front. Back at my bike, it turned out that even my admirable exercise in self-control was too much for the wire basket, and the plums arrived home in rougher shape than I would have liked.

It happens like this every time. A greed, a desire to carry home a cornucopia of produce, holding the promise of a better me. Who would I be if I consumed kale four times a week? Who could I become if my only dessert craving was for fruit? I guess I could drive over and find out, but half the fun is in the yearning.

Prone to Hyperbole by Ailén Cruz