-Thanks very much.
-Many years. If not, damn it.
The free market shakes hands with life beneath tons of garlic. The owner of a stall thanks a shopper who chooses his strings among the thousands who have gathered on the Tres Cruces road in Zamora. Plaintiff declines thanks and asks to continue aging, which garlic is said to be excellent properties for, and come back like any San Pedro for teeth and heads for flavoring stews and recipes. The scene is repeated at the 85 stalls in central Zamora, where garlic with a few bulbs embedded has been attracting thousands of people eager to stock the pantry since 1889. The decline of agriculture reduces the volumes compared to the glory days, but the clientele remains faithful to the tradition between water and hats that expresses the heat.
The sun heated up the awnings and warmed up the star product on June 28th and 29th in the castle town of Leon. The scent would shock Victoria Beckham, but it shook a saleswoman who sat sleepily in the shade on a beach chair anchored to the tarmac. The area was packed with locals and expats both days, and visitors from the province and Portugal came to fill up.
The audience carried bags or pushed heavy carts and little old men hauled up kilos and kilos as if nothing mattered, trifles next to a life in the country. The experienced buyers analyzed the strings, examined the color palette, which ranges from white to purple, and commented on the origin of the material: La Bóveda de Toro, Sanzoles, Guarrate or Jambrina are just some of the 28 places where the garlic given out is produced . “The vampires are coming!” shouted an older man who wore this talisman against bloodsuckers or for grilled mackerel.
Vendors and customers at the Garlic Fair in Zamora. Emilio Fraile
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The average age of Tres Cruces made Felisa Tejeda, 43, one of the newest traders. “We bring 800 kilos from Fuentesaúco, my parents weave them and I help them sell them because young people don’t know how to do it,” explained this worker from a pharmaceutical laboratory who worked for a day in the primary sector. Each string weighed about one and a half kilos and cost between four and ten euros, although some stalls lowered prices and constituted unfair competition for the garlic sector. In 2023 there were 85 stands and Caja Rural, the organizer of the fair, estimated that around 300,000 kilos would be for sale. In the past there were more than 400 stalls and a million kilos.
Some peasants would wake up at four in the morning after weeks of tying and pampering them to place their wares and sing their attributes and prizes to seduce passers-by. Fanny packs and pouches were ripped open to reveal wads of bills and jingling coins that they hoped would exceed the cost of fertilizer, farming, gasoline, or maintenance. In ancient times, the threads were braided between the townspeople in return for a favor or payment in kind; Now the knowledge is forgotten and those who master it charge for their wisdom. The more spending, the more evidence of rural decay and depopulation that has set in.
Those present on either side of the stand evoked nostalgia as they flooded this and other surrounding streets, although there was a catch: then no license was required and the same producer could occupy multiple stands. Many retired farmers took the opportunity to supplement their pensions by selling these edible onions. Permits and self-employment registration are now required.
Post 59 brings together the buyer Pedro Blanco, 92 years old, with the businessman Leoncio Quintos (73 years old) from Fuentelapeña. The seasoned buyer attributes its longevity “to the fact that garlic gives life” and carries around 10 kilos “all year round”. He used to steal gifts from his relatives, but now he’s opting for his own consumption and subconsciously reveals a rhyme: “The steak or the salad without a little garlic says nothing.”
Having harvested two tons, Quintos recalls that the same product “is very expensive in the supermarket” and urges them to stock up. “Young people don’t want to go to the country anymore, they have a lot of work and we’ve been preparing garlic since September,” he sighed almost in July, remembering the good times. “It’s over,” he laments.
Zamora. A young seller twists a string of garlic to put it in the bag. Emilio Fraile
Verónica Peña, 25 years old and perhaps the oldest of the posts, makes a living from farming, contrary to the trend of her generation. “I hope young people get more encouragement because it’s being lost,” he muses. The hands of its relatives reflect the claims of this plant, with strong fingers, calloused and withered from tangling the threads, gathered 2,000 in coreses. The Basque party of Begoña Barrutia and her mother Natividad de la Iglesia, a migrant from Zamora to Bilbao, resented at the age of 92 that the press entertains their daughter while tempting the best garlic: “Let talk and pay attention!” Bartutia checks a list of names from Gorka to Itsaso to Argimiro and asks them to take out the bills, only to ask the vendor to fill a shopping cart and place the loot in the car.
Garlic presents a family plan to José and Noelia Canas, 64 and 31 years old. Both carry overstuffed bags and attack those who flock to the stalls trying to bargain with the producers. “We have to thank them, we know their work and bring them here,” says the man from Zamora. “You have to promote the local,” they insist, before the intense scent of an endangered tradition lingers.