Nuts, candy, ice cream and wine??? This place must be heaven. And it always makes me think of You've Got Mail when Steve Zahn's character says, "This place is a tomb. I'm going to the nut shop where it's fun." For years I've wondered, what nut shop? Why is it fun? What do they do there? I guess this would be the answer.
Anyway, it's really the grocery store next to the Nut House that has intrigued me for a while. The grocery is called Elat Market. It was rumored to be this magical land full of the freshest of fresh and the cheapest of cheap produce and meats. It supposedly housed all sorts of Middle Eastern delights and spices. I'd read about it on food blogs. I'd stalked its page on Yelp. And now that I live about 5 blocks away from it, you might ask why I haven't ventured in yet. Well, just like every hero must have a weakness, this shop supposedly has crowds of cutthroat old ladies with big carts. I'd read horror stories of people stealing out of each other's carts, arguments erupting in Farsi, and customers elbowing each other in the face over iceberg lettuce. Let's just say I've been psyching myself up to visit for a lonnnnng time.
Suddenly, my intrepid roommate decided that today was the day that she would venture to the Elat Market. She returned about 45 minutes later, eyes wide and veins pulsing with bloodlust. No, I'm just kidding. She loved it. She took a detour to the Nut House and made friends with Amir who worked there. Then she skipped into Elat and bought sugarplums. I'm not even kidding. In case you needed further proof: Coward = Me.
A Poem, on the Supposition of an Advertisement Appearing in a Morning Paper, of the Publication of a Volume of Poems, by a Servant-Maid
The tea-kettle bubbled, the tea things were set,
The candles were lighted, the ladies were met;
The how d’ye’s were over, and entering bustle,
The company seated, and silks ceased to rustle:
The great Mrs. Consequence opened her fan,
And thus the discourse in an instant began
(All affected reserve and formality scorning):
“I suppose you all saw in the paper this morning
A volume of Poems advertised—’tis said
They’re produced by the pen of a poor servant-maid.”
“A servant write verses!” says Madam Du Bloom:
“Pray what is the subject—a Mop, or a Broom?”
“He, he, he,” says Miss Flounce: “I suppose we shall see
An ode on a Dishclout—what else can it be?”
Says Miss Coquettilla, “Why, ladies, so tart?
Perhaps Tom the footman has fired her heart;
And she’ll tell us how charming he looks in new clothes,
And how nimble his hand moves in brushing the shoes;
Or how, the last time that he went to May Fair,
He bought her some sweethearts of gingerbread ware.”
“For my part I think,” says old Lady Marr-joy,
“A servant might find herself other employ:
Was she mine I’d employ her as long as ’twas light,
And send her to bed without candle at night.”
“Why so?” says Miss Rhymer, displeased: “I protest
’Tis pity a genius should be so depressed!”
“What ideas can such low-bred creatures conceive?”
Says Mrs. Noworthy, and laughed in her sleeve.
Says old Miss Prudella, “If servants can tell
How to write to their mothers, to say they are well,
And read of a Sunday The Duty of Man,
Which is more I believe than one half of them can;
I think ’tis much properer they should rest there,
Than be reaching at things so much out of their sphere.”
Says old Mrs. Candour, “I’ve now got a maid
That’s the plague of my life—a young gossiping jade;
There’s no end of the people that after her come,
And whenever I’m out, she is never at home;
I’d rather ten times she would sit down and write,
Than gossip all over the town every night.”
“Some whimsical trollop most like,” says Miss Prim,
“Has been scribbling of nonsense, just out of a whim,
And, conscious it neither is witty nor pretty,
Conceals her true name, and ascribes it to Betty.”
“I once had a servant myself,” says Miss Pines,
“That wrote on a wedding some very good lines.”
Says Mrs. Domestic, “And when they were done,
I can’t see for my part what use they were on;
Had she wrote a receipt, to’ve instructed you how
To warm a cold breast of veal, like a ragout,
Or to make cowslip wine, that would pass for Champagne,
It might have been useful, again and again.”
On the sofa was old Lady Pedigree placed;
She owned that for poetry she had no taste,
That the study of heraldry was more in fashion,
And boasted she knew all the crests in the nation.
Says Mrs. Routella, “Tom, take out the urn,
And stir up the fire, you see it don’t burn.”
The tea-things removed, and the tea-table gone,
The card-tables brought, and the cards laid thereon,
The ladies, ambitious for each other’s crown,
Like courtiers contending for honours, sat down.
-Elizabeth Hands
