In memoriam of this most auspicious of Cork's veritable plethora of local landmarks, most commonly referred to as the English Market's, heritage as a nineteenth-century feat of architecture (by which, I mean to say, it's veritable Victorian nature) I will be adopting a more stately manner of speech than we today are accustomed to.
The English Market could easily constitute all seven wonders of Cork City all by its lonesome. The Market, which, despite its status as a singular noun, is more truly an amalgamation, is a collection of diverse stalls and sellers, each propagating their wares (which mostly take the form of sweet meats and savoury treats, fresh fish and browned breads) to the denizens of this fine medieval city.
The English Market could easily constitute all seven wonders of Cork City all by its lonesome. The Market, which, despite its status as a singular noun, is more truly an amalgamation, is a collection of diverse stalls and sellers, each propagating their wares (which mostly take the form of sweet meats and savoury treats, fresh fish and browned breads) to the denizens of this fine medieval city.
This fine cultural institution is primarily stocked with fare that, often enough, began its undoubtedly happy, pastoral existence on some small country hamlet or homestead only so many miles from where, ultimately, it will be purchased and joyfully consumed by Corkonians. In a day and age marked by the ubiquity of the packaged and the processed, this delightful selection of grocery is a welcome balm for the hungered and an exciting venture for the curious.
I wrote earlier that the meats were sweet, but I must assure you, no sweeter than many of the treats. Several sellers offer the finest of pastries, pasties, cremes, and tasties. In truth, Madilyn and I partook of some of the most divine, ambrosial creme puffs and iced cream scoops we have ever encountered, thanks to this fine market.
If this spread of images and wealth of words is making my dear readers mouths' water, know that both Madilyn and I felt the same, most universal urge on our visit to the market. Know as well that, if reading this whets in you a hunger most profound, it pales in comparison to the power of the many aromas that drift, like unseen zephyrs, amoungst the aisles of this temple of taste, synagogue of snacks, and cathedral of cuisine. For, as I have no doubt my learned and lettered readers are well aware, this epistle is like a shadow on old Plato's wall, and a most unsatisfying shadow, compared to the wonders that await Cork's culinary clientele. Because of the power of this place we have taken it upon ourselves to do much of our larder stocking at no other grocer than those found between the warmly lit, vaulted roof of the English Market.
I regret to say, in fact, that the crown jewel of the English Market, its butchery options, are one of the wonders of the place we have failed to photograph. I do assure you, however, that the meats are most meet for a feast, be it of a beggar or king, and are so fresh from the fields, that on unwrapping one's purchase at home, one cannot help but believe they catch the faintest whiff of the Emerald Isle's namesake grass.
I regret to say, in fact, that the crown jewel of the English Market, its butchery options, are one of the wonders of the place we have failed to photograph. I do assure you, however, that the meats are most meet for a feast, be it of a beggar or king, and are so fresh from the fields, that on unwrapping one's purchase at home, one cannot help but believe they catch the faintest whiff of the Emerald Isle's namesake grass.
In the interest of brevity (the soul of wit so it is said) I will be closing this letter without too much ado. If you find yourself fearing that this scant offering is all the word that will be spreading forth from we Americans in Cork, fear not too long. We will be in touch again soon.