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| The Pulitzer Prize-Winning Weekly Newspaper |
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| Fruit vendor cherries up Panoramic passersby |
Clark Merrefield
2008-07-17 |
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Beneath an American flag and three cloth banners that shout Macadamias, Cherries and Pistachios to passersby, Peter Bournazos sat last Sunday on his pickup truck's open cab door on a windswept turnout a mile from Muir Woods. With his wife Olga at home in Novato and his four "catastrophes" out of the house and with kids of their own, Bournazos works alone for four days of the week. He's not complaining.
"I like to be outside," he said, "not with a computer."
Bounazos' product line is impressive compared to your run-of-the-mill roadside cherry stand. There is dried mango and dried papaya, salted and honey roasted almonds, unsalted cashews and assorted trail mixes. There are mangos, nectarines, peaches, figs and cherries.
But the real attraction to the stand is Bournazos himself. Originally from Greece, Bournazos emigrated to the United States 30 years ago, or, as he says, "three days before Columbus." When customers arrive at his stand, and they seem to come in waves, Bournazos makes quick personal connections—and sales.
"Come sta?" Bournazos said last Sunday to a middle-aged Italian woman before adding a few words of admiration toward Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi.
"I love America!" the woman replied before forking over a few dollars for a half-pound bag of cherries.
And where do the cherries come from?
"Cherries come from the cherry tree," Bournazos says before admitting that he buys his fresh fruit from a produce market in San Francisco. Most of the farmers he buys from are from Fresno, Modesto and Stockton, he said.
On weekends, hundreds of drivers pass Bournazos' stand on their way to the usually crowded Muir Woods parking lot. Many customers are tourists from Eastern Europe, New York City and Chicago, he said.
On Sunday, Bournazos wore a black knitted hat with an oval San Francisco 49ers logo, and a faded green hoodie over his slumped shoulders. He had pulled black knitted leg warmers over his grey corduroys to help fight the biting wind.
Just before 3 p.m., a car pulled up parallel to the stand and a passenger slung her arm out of the window.
"How much for cherries?" she asked.
"Five dollars," Bournazos said. The car moved, ready to drive off. "Four dollars!" he
yelled. The driver pulled up in front of Bournazos' truck and the woman strolled up to the stand.
"You sold us on your cherries," she said.
Later, a white station wagon pulled up in a cloud of dust and a black-haired woman got out.
"Do you have any limes?" she asked.
"Limes? No. Tequila!" Bournazos said.
"Ha!" the woman squealed.
"Here, sweet limes," he said, holding out three blood red cherries. The woman popped them in her mouth, murmuring "Mmmm" before prodding a few mangos with her fingers.
After a moment she looked to Bournazos for help.
"I don't know how to pick good mangos, do you?" He hopped up and offered her a few ripe ones.
The wave of customers passed, and Bournazos sat again on the cab door of his truck. He tossed a few overripe nectarines near the trunk of a rotting tree, forming a scattered persica graveyard. Before long the next wave arrived, and Bournazos was back on his feet.
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