I've posted at least once or twice about the market here in Flers. Whenever most Americans I know think about France (or Europe in general, for that matter), one of the images that often comes to mind are "little French markets". In fact, "little French" has almost become the cliché adjective grouping for describing almost anything French: "little French streets", "little French towns", "little French houses", etc. Often, these descriptives are further enhanced by the addition of "cute", as in "cute little French shops", "cute little French restaurant", or my favourite, "cute little French people". And while it's true that most things in France, in comparison with the U.S., are indeed "little" (and, consequently, often "cute"), we could at least be a bit more precise in our choice of descriptors.
Like, for example, that "cute little French market". Imagine yourself there...
It's abrilliant, sunny foggy, damp, grey spring day (hey, we are in Normandy; let's not get too romantic here). You wake up somewhat early, grab your market basket, and head off to the cute little town center (about five minutes on foot). There are cute little French people milling about everywhere. All sorts of people, in fact. Old and young. City-dwellers and farmers. French and immigrant.
Vendors call out melodically from their stands, "chou-fleur, 1€ la tête!", "œufs frais, 2€ la douzaine!", "oranges: sanguines, fruitées, ou douces!", "petits pois, 1€50 les 500g!", "jus de pommes fermier, 2€ la bouteille!", etc. The air smells of buttery crêpes, spread with apricot or "red fruits" jam and sold at a stand nearby, or of roasting chickens and rice. Here, a spread of stinky cheeses in a hundred different shapes and shades; there, a table covered with ice, and the day's catches from an early morning at the English channel... Here, a baker selling her plump, crusty baguettes and country breads, dusty with flour and emitting a sweet, grainy scent with their straight-from-the-oven warmth; there, an old gardener offering potted herbs and colourful cut flowers. You wind your way through the stands, admiring the bright, shiny fruits and vegetables, arranged so carefully, the best-looking ones on the top to tempt customers' roving eyes: rich, red tomatoes; dark green zucchini; tiny bunches of different types of field greens, held together by rubber bands; gigantic, leafy, almost-fluorescent greenish/yellowish heads of escarole; bin upon bin of dusty, dirt-covered carrots, earthy potatoes, and other rough, brownish root vegetables (celery root, turnips, parsnips, rutabaga); potent, vinaigre-smelling cooked beets and aptly-named, purply, toad-like crapaudines; large flats of big, bright-red strawberries, and their tinier, sweeter, wilder cousins, the mara, or fraises des bois; enormous, long leeks (a French favourite), ready to be chopped, sautéed in butter, and added to a variety of scrumptious, fattening, creamylittle French recipes; baskets and baskets of orange-, yellow-, and pink-shaded agrumes (citrus fruits); apples and apples and apples; pears and pears and pears; etc. etc. etc... couldn't we go on and on forever?
And then you go staggering back to your cute little French apartment (yes, some things really just are cute, little, and French), arm breaking under the load, with your 20€'s worth of goods. And this is what you end up with:
This time, I didn't buy any cheese, because my stomach just doesn't handle it very well. I've been eating goat's cheese instead, which I mainly buy at the supermarket, and from time to time a little emmenthal. But otherwise, not a bad haul, don't you agree?
I saved the best for last, of course. There is a bakery in Flers (the boulangerie on rue de la Boule) that makes the best pain au chocolat (a chocolate-filled croissant-type pastry) I've ever tasted, anywhere in France. Once you have these pain au chocolat, nothing else even comes close, and every other you taste is just lacking. They are the most buttery, rich, delicious pastries, with two neat little bars of dark chocolate on either side. You can break them in half lengthwise and dip them in coffee, or just gobble up the whole damn thing, which is what I usually end up doing. As in...
Bon
appétit,
mes
amis!
Like, for example, that "cute little French market". Imagine yourself there...
It's a
Vendors call out melodically from their stands, "chou-fleur, 1€ la tête!", "œufs frais, 2€ la douzaine!", "oranges: sanguines, fruitées, ou douces!", "petits pois, 1€50 les 500g!", "jus de pommes fermier, 2€ la bouteille!", etc. The air smells of buttery crêpes, spread with apricot or "red fruits" jam and sold at a stand nearby, or of roasting chickens and rice. Here, a spread of stinky cheeses in a hundred different shapes and shades; there, a table covered with ice, and the day's catches from an early morning at the English channel... Here, a baker selling her plump, crusty baguettes and country breads, dusty with flour and emitting a sweet, grainy scent with their straight-from-the-oven warmth; there, an old gardener offering potted herbs and colourful cut flowers. You wind your way through the stands, admiring the bright, shiny fruits and vegetables, arranged so carefully, the best-looking ones on the top to tempt customers' roving eyes: rich, red tomatoes; dark green zucchini; tiny bunches of different types of field greens, held together by rubber bands; gigantic, leafy, almost-fluorescent greenish/yellowish heads of escarole; bin upon bin of dusty, dirt-covered carrots, earthy potatoes, and other rough, brownish root vegetables (celery root, turnips, parsnips, rutabaga); potent, vinaigre-smelling cooked beets and aptly-named, purply, toad-like crapaudines; large flats of big, bright-red strawberries, and their tinier, sweeter, wilder cousins, the mara, or fraises des bois; enormous, long leeks (a French favourite), ready to be chopped, sautéed in butter, and added to a variety of scrumptious, fattening, creamy
And then you go staggering back to your cute little French apartment (yes, some things really just are cute, little, and French), arm breaking under the load, with your 20€'s worth of goods. And this is what you end up with:
 |
| My boyfriend bought me my market basket when we were in Tunisia together. Most French women have something similar to this for marketing. |
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| From left: Mizuna, Roquette, and Pourpier greens |
 |
| William pears, lemons, sanguine orange, pineapple from the Ivory Coast, and strawberries |
 |
| avocados, Cerise tomatoes, endives, zucchini, leek, broccoli, parsley, and garden peas |
 |
| Pain au chocolat and farm-fresh eggs (the farmer picks them out of a large basket of them!) |
This time, I didn't buy any cheese, because my stomach just doesn't handle it very well. I've been eating goat's cheese instead, which I mainly buy at the supermarket, and from time to time a little emmenthal. But otherwise, not a bad haul, don't you agree?
I saved the best for last, of course. There is a bakery in Flers (the boulangerie on rue de la Boule) that makes the best pain au chocolat (a chocolate-filled croissant-type pastry) I've ever tasted, anywhere in France. Once you have these pain au chocolat, nothing else even comes close, and every other you taste is just lacking. They are the most buttery, rich, delicious pastries, with two neat little bars of dark chocolate on either side. You can break them in half lengthwise and dip them in coffee, or just gobble up the whole damn thing, which is what I usually end up doing. As in...
Bon
appétit,
mes
amis!
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