Were you a dad in France, you could well be treated with cakes and champagne, and a bouquet of flowers would sit festively in the middle of your table.
All, of course, purchased at or around the market.
Saturday, the Parisian village where I live (okay, it has a name: Champignol, which is part of the larger Ville de Saint-Maur-des-Fosses, which in turn is part of Paris; now you see why I avoid naming it) has its big market. Everyone who was selling on Wednesday is here, but there are many others.
Aurore tells me – go at 11. People come together then to shop and to talk.
Indeed.
A visit to the market is my only activity this day and so you have this to keep you happy: people coming together over white asparagus and orange melon and cheese. (I bought all three.)
You may as well make the acquaintance of my cheese man (and his wife). Because I don’t dare go to anyone else. He is nice to me and I am nice right back. It’s not hard – he has a wonderful selection.
And this is how it works in these Parisian-village markets: they roam from Parisian village to Parisian village so that if you go from one to the other, you’ll meet your favorite vendors again. Some sell only a few products from their own backyard, but the vast majority present foods from a number of growers (most from France, but in seafood – some from Madagascar and in some fruits – Spain’s there as well; it’s easy to tell – most foods have place of origin clearly marked; if it’s French, it comes with an exclamation mark!).
So, I leave you with a bouquet for this holiday. Cleverly presented with roses and berries. Simple and sweet and so very pretty.
