Why are rich modern cities so obsessed with street food?

Berlin's Markthalle Neun. Image: Getty.

In London, at some point in the 1840s, an oyster seller who had “seen better days” described her trade to journalist Henry Mayhew. Hawking from a basket on a busy street, she took home just a shilling a night (£2-3 today). Her regulars were sheepish gentlemen, prostitutes, and workers hunting a Saturday supper. In nineteenth-century London, oysters were hardly a luxury. Mayhew estimated 124m were sold every year, at four a penny.

In the same city, in mid-2016, I picked up dinner in a half-abandoned warehouse. For a few pounds entry, plus a fiver or so a dish, I wolfed down Hawaiian sushi, a Jerk-seasoned corn cob, and chewy, bright-green meringues. The vendors and bar staff were even hipper than the hip, millennial crowd, which was padded out by families and tourists.

Street food has always been an urban phenomenon. A set of historical essays, published this summer, has chapters on ancient Rome, Naples in the 1700s, and modern-day Bangkok. Until recently, rich and poor cityfolk bought most of their food, raw and cooked, from stalls or wanderers on the streets.

It’s hardly news this traditional chow has gone gourmet. Open-air markets, like Smorgasburg in Brooklyn or Kerb across London, jostle with restaurants to offer the most exciting and innovative urban grub.

But another trend could change the phenomenon, and the city space, more drastically: the fixed-site, often indoors, always open market. Street food is coming off the streets.

This autumn, Time Out unveiled plans to open a market in London during the second half of 2017. The Shoreditch site will host 17 food outlets, a cooking academy, several bars, a shop and a gallery.

“We want to offer local restaurateurs, mixologists [that is, cocktail-makers], artists the opportunity to showcase their talent in a different part of town and in a great location that reflects our brand character,” Time Out CEO Julio Bruno told me by email.

London is not the only target. In 2014, the media group opened its first market in Lisbon, taking over a 75,000 sq ft, nineteenth-century hall on the waterfront. A second Iberian market, in Porto, will start trading next year. Similar schemes in Miami and New York are “progressing well”, the company says, but have no launch dates attached.


Time Out stresses these markets are not just about street food; journalists say otherwise, drawing them into round-ups of on-the-hoof eating. I visited the Lisbon market in September and saw a dual identity. There was street-style informality: on that Saturday night, the masses fought for free chairs, drunk beer from plastic glasses, and chomped overflowing burgers and bold-flavoured ice cream from semi-permanent stalls. But there were luxury flashes: the hall was decked with polished wood and steel, and the vendors included some of the city’s best-known chefs, who crafted elegant small plates. As we walked in, passing a glass tank, we were watched by a pair of lobsters.

The market does not mirror the serendipity of street life. Time Out’s writers curate everything, with each vendor brandishing a four- or five-star review. “The best fine-dining, the best fast-casual – [the journalists] handpick all of that, whether it’s already loved by locals or up and coming,” Bruno says.

These markets are a new way to use old spaces. Markets themselves aren’t novel – they were one reason cities first sprung up, and now famous hubs like Barcelona’s La Boqueria, Berlin’s Markthalle Neun and LA’s Grand Central Market have substantial street food components – but this trend is different. These are fresh developments pulling plugged-in food lovers to quieter parts of the metropolis.

Time Out’s Lisbon market played a role in its area’s revival. The Cais do Sodré area, long distinguished by drunk sailors, brothels and sweaty clubs, has become a fashionable nightlife spot over the last decade. Having an attraction feeding 1.3m people a year in your locale can’t hurt. Unsurprisingly, it’s something Bruno is proud of. “The market played a decisive role in bringing employment and attracting visitors to this once slightly neglected part of town,” he adds.

One of Time Out’s competitors has community values up front. London Union’s internal mission statement is, “Transforming lives and communities with the awesome power of street food”. Last year, the company bought Street Feast, which runs markets in underused buildings and spaces in Canada Water, Lewisham and Shoreditch. The one I visited this summer, in Dalston Yard, has recently closed.

Its founders, backed by food world glitterati from Jamie Oliver to Yottam Ottolenghi, want to open to 20 local markets by 2020, including a vast street food mecca in the heart of the city. Their dream spot is the derelict Smithfield General Market.

Smithfield General Market. Image: JamesK1987/Wikimedia Commons.

On the phone, Jonathan Downey, one of the founders, rejects the accusation the smart and fashionable just come to make fun in poorer parts of town. As those areas become cooler, they also become more expensive, rents rise and locals might suffer.

“I am not a gentrifier; I am a hyper-local,” says Downey. He describes the varied parts of London in which he’s lived or opened bars and restaurants. “I’m not a landlord. They may then follow and reference what I’ve done, but I have actually done something that is reasonable and good value. We are about community and amenity.”

Who are these markets for? London Union says 70% per cent of its 1m annual customers are under 35; but the story of invading hipsters is not entirely fair. In Lewisham and Dalston, where 40 per cent of visitors lived within a mile, the markets became part of the neighbourhood, while in Shoreditch the crowd has more suits from the nearby City.

Street Feast’s traders, who pay a percentage of their takings as a pitch fee, hardly resemble the down-and-out hawkers of history. Downey calls most of them “passionate, second- or third-career people”. “They want to do something that they love and share it,” he says.

These warm, structured, permanent markets are a platform for young businesses. Their impact on an area probably needs careful watching, as it will vary from place to place. Rich cities with few vendors may have to worry less, though others, like New York with its several thousand legal and illegal traders, may see a threat.

But what of those defining labels – “food” and “street”? To Downey, street food means specialising in one dish, like chicken wings or tacos. It is anything eaten standing up, but not necessarily outdoors. And it requires a human connection between seller and eater. “It’s a bit like being a band on stage,” he says. “You feel your feedback.”

With the last part at least, Mayhew’s oyster maid would agree.

Charlie Taverner tweets as @charlietaverner.

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What are Europe’s longest train journeys?

The Orient Express was a pretty long train. Image: Getty.

For reasons that aren’t clear even to me, a question popped into my head and refused to leave: what’s longer? Britain’s longest train joruney, or Germany’s?

On the one hand, Germany is quite a bit larger – its area is 70 per cent more than Great Britain’s. On the other hand, Great Britain is long, skinny island and Germany is much rounder – the distance from John O’ Groats to Lands End is over 1,400 km, but you never have walk over 1,000 km to cross Germany in any direction.

And it turns out these factors balance almost each other out. Britain’s longest train, the CrossCountry from Aberdeen in Scotland to Penzance in Cornwall, runs 785 miles or 1,263 km. Germany’s longest train, the IC 2216 from Offenburg in the Black Forest to Greifswald on the Baltic coast, is exactly 1,300 km. Germany wins by a tiny distance.

Except then I was hooked. What about the longest train in France? Spain? Italy?

So I did what anyone would do. I made a map.

The map above was all drawn with the Deutsche Bahn (Germany Railways) travel planning tool, which rather incredibly has nearly every railway in Europe. The data quality is better for some countries than others (the lines in France aren’t quite that straight in real life), and the measurements may be a bit off – it’s not always easy to find the length of a train service, especially when routes can vary over the year – but it gives us a good idea of what the routes look like.

Let’s start with the UK. The Aberdeen to Penzance route isn’t really for people who want to go all the way across the country. Instead, it’s a way to link together several railway lines and connect some medium-to-large cities that otherwise don’t have many direct services. “Cross-country” trains like these have existed for a century, but because they crossed multiple different company’s lines – and later, multiple British Rail regions – they tended to get ignored.

 

That’s why, when it privatised the railways, the government created a specific CrossCountry franchise so there was a company dedicated to these underused routes. If you want to get from Edinburgh to Leeds or Derby to Bristol, you’ll probably want a CrossCountry train.

The usual route is Edinburgh to Plymouth, but once a day they run an extra long one. Just one way though – there’s no Penzance to Aberdeen train. 

The longest train in Germany is weird – at 1,400 km, it’s substantially longer than the country itself. On the map, the reason is obvious – it takes a huge C shaped route. (It also doubles back on itself at one point in order to reach Stuttgart).

This route takes it down the Rhine, the biggest river in west Germany, and through the most densely populated patch of the country around Cologne and Dusseldorf known as the Ruhr. Germany’s second and third longest trains also have quite similar routes – they start and end in remote corners of the country, but all three have the Rhine-Ruhr metropolitan area in the middle.

You’re not meant to take the IC 2216 all the way from north east to south west – there are much more direct options available. Instead, it’s for people who want to travel to these major cities. They could run two separate trains – say, Offenburg-Dusseldorf and Griefswald-Cologne – but making it a single route means passengers benefit from a bit more flexibility and helps DB use its rolling stock more effectively.

France’s longest train exists for a very good reason. Most of France’s high-speed lines radiate out from Paris, and it’s very hard to get around the country without going to the capital. Usually to get from Marseille on the Mediterranean to Nantes near the Atlantic, you’d need to take a TGV to Paris Gare de Lyon station, then get the Métro across the city to Gare Montparnasse.

Once a day though, this TGV avoids this faff by stopping in the suburb of Juvisy and turning around without going into the centre. This lets passengers travel direct between the coasts and reduces the traffic through Paris’s terminals in the rush hour. The exact length of this route isn’t clear, but Wikipedia says it’s about 1,130 km.

Spain’s longest train is very different. This is the Trenhotel sleeper service from Barcelona to Vigo, and it’s pretty fancy. This is a train for tourists and business travellers, with some quite luxurious sleeping cabins. But it is a regularly scheduled train run by the state operator Renfe, not a luxury charter, and it does appear in the timetables.

Being dry, hot and quite mountainous in its middle, most of Spain’s cities are on its coast (Madrid is the one major exception) and as a result the train passes through relatively few urban areas. (Zaragoza, Spain’s 5th largest city, is on the route, but after that the next biggest city is Burgos, its 35th largest,) This is partly why overnight trains work so well on the route – without many stops in the middle, most passengers can just sleep right through the journey, although there are occasional day time trains on that route too if you want to savour the view on that 1,314 km journey.

Finally, there’s Italy. This is another sleeper train, from Milan in the north to Syracuse on the island of Sicily. It goes via Rome and travels along the west coast of... wait, it’s a train to the island of Sicily? How, when there’s no bridge?

Well, this train takes a boat. I don’t really have anything else to add here. It’s just a train that they literally drive onto a ferry, sail across the water, and then drive off again at the other side. That’s pretty cool.

(As I was writing this, someone on Twitter got in touch to tell me the route will get even longer in September when the line to Palermo reopens. That should be exciting.)

So those are the longest trains in each country. But they aren’t the longest in Europe.

For one thing, there are some countries we haven’t looked at yet with very long trains. Sweden has some spectacular routes from its southern tip up into the Arctic north, and although the Donbass War appears to have cut Ukraine’s Uzhorod to Luhansk service short, even Uzhorod to Kharkiv is over 1,400 km. And then there are the international routes.

To encourage the Russian rich to take the train for their holiday, Russian Railways now run a luxury sleeper from Moscow to Nice, passing through France, Monaco, Italy, Austria, Czechia, Poland, Belarus and Russia. This monster line is 3,315 km long and stretches across most of the continent. That’s got to be the longest in Europe, right?

Nope. Incredibly, the longest train in Europe doesn’t actually cross a single border. Unsurprisingly, it’s in Russia, but it’s not the Trans-Siberian – the vast majority of that’s route is in Asia, not Europe. No, if you really want a long European train journey, head to Adler, just south of the Olympic host city Sochi. From there, you can catch a train up to Vorkuta on the edge of the Arctic Circle. The route zigzags a bit over its 89 hour, 4,200 km journey, but it always stays on the European side of the Ural mountains.

Bring a good book.

Stephen Jorgenson-Murray often tweets about this kind of nonsense at @stejormur.


All maps courtesy of Deutsche Bahn.