“Farmers Markets Are Where I Belong”
Little Paris Crêpes and Bakery has delighted market customers for decades! While still in secondary school, Gerrit Marks began working at area markets for the original proprietors Roger and Mireille. When he became owner/chef in 2005, he introduced his own fresh-made crêpes created with local ingredients. He now presents crêpes that are sweet, savory, cooked to order (or frozen, to go!) in addition to breads, baguettes, and delicious pastries.
His first taste of crêpes were those his mother made in a cast-iron skillet. As a student of French language and culture at the Lycée Henri IV in Paris, he enjoyed authentic crêpes served at corner cafés and restaurants.
“That was a completely different technique—where they spread the batter on the big griddle. Takes a little while to master it.” Gerrit made authentic crêpes at the Magic Pan restaurant while he started classes at the University of Maryland; he graduated with a degree in French literature.Gerrit is pleased to note that the Little Paris stand has been staffed by longtime helpers and crêpières (crepe-makers) who have remained friends after their tenures. Some friendships have blossomed into more—assistants Ryan Mohler (also a Market Board member) and his wife Hye-Song Lee met at Little Paris, and now boast the May arrival of baby Waverly (Hye-Song is the expert crêpe-maker in the family).
In May 2021, the Washington Post printed his letter about the ‘mechanics of the markets, the setup and teardown… a well-rehearsed and choreographed ballet’—a timely read as the Waverly Market’s summer/fall season opens!
This is the time of year when things start to heat up. Not just where the weather is concerned, but also for those of us who make our livings tending our stands at the area farmers markets. Mid-June is approximately when my year begins, a full six months after everyone else’s.
My first job, at 14, was at the farmers market, helping family friends with their producestand. Over the years, while I was still a “helper,” and not yet the owner of my ownbusiness, I would peel off and work “regular” jobs, the kind where you sit in a cubicle and a co-worker comes by at lunch and asks if you want anything from Taco Bell. I never fit in at those places. Besides, I don’t like Taco Bell.
photo????
So the markets have been my life. Even during those bone-chilling winter days when I wondered if I’d ever get warm again, I still would not trade the work for the warmth and security of the cubicle. Don’t think I haven’t considered a switch — I have, but the swirling snow and menacing clouds outside my office window only enticed me to go outside. And I think about that choice as I serve customers with mittens cut off at the fingers, allowing me just enough time for a transaction before the numbness sets in again.
The market is where I belong; it’s where I fit in. The mechanics of the markets, the setup and teardown, are something of a well-rehearsed and choreographed ballet. The first trucks rumble into the darkened space between 4:30 and 5 in the morning, well ahead of any customers. Who would want to come shop at that hour anyway? Air brakes pierce the morning stillness with a hiss, then fall silent for the next six hours or so. “Real estate” is at a premium, but everyone has his space. Boundaries are respected; tents and tables mark the layout of each stand. No fights break out, no shouting matches — we all know where we belong.In these waking moments, I occasionally meet those denizens of the night, the ones who for one reason or another are out on the streets. For some, it is their home. I can’tsay I can relate to their level of need; I’ve been fortunate that way, and I recognize this. I have to refuse their requests for money; it’s what I’ve been told. That’s not a way to help, according to the experts. But my truck is full of food, and I offer whatever I can to take away take away the gnawing hunger. At the same time, I have to make the most of the precious time I have to set up, lest the customers arrive and I’m only partly ready. A bit of food to chase away the hunger of one of these people in need, and I have to get on with the business of setting up. I can’t linger or get into their personal histories — as much as I’d like to.
The city parking lots and other market spaces often are nothing short of funky. There can be trash and liquor bottles from late-night revelers, a pizza box from a corner store. Most of that is picked up and cleared away before the start of the market, but it’s hard to get the space squeaky clean. So we choose to ignore all that, best just not to acknowledge it. It’s a tacit agreement, this meeting of the customers and vendors.
The level of activity is often intense; it’s taxing both mentally and physically. Vendors need to keep track of everything: preparing for the market, producing or harvesting what we have to sell, loading the trucks, making sure everything is ready, that there are enough supplies and so on. It’s easy to forget something, but when everything goes as planned, it’s a beautiful thing. Yes, tiring and exhausting, but a wonderful and satisfying effort nonetheless. Many customers feel a real connection with the market vendors, and we feel the same. I look forward to seeing the same customers every week and introducing new ones to my stand. It’s a gathering place in the community where neighbors can meet up, do some shopping, possibly reconnect with those they haven’t seen for some time. I’ve been a market vendor for so many years, I have watched my customers’ children grow up, get married and come to my stand with their own children. The cycle continues.
PHOTOS/maybe a sequence of pix with Gerrit at the crêpière? the video?