Two markets, one weekend
On Saturday morning I dragged myself out of bed and down the street and onto the Metro at 8:30 so I could hit the Cours de la Reine market at the place d’Iena. Patricia Wells tells me that this market “has enchanted the well-heeled 16th arrondissement shopper” since 1873.
1873! That’s almost impossible to comprehend.
I was motivated to arrive early because I suspect that the most extreme food action in Paris happens in the wee hours of the morning. I can’t really confirm this, though, because I am rarely awake then. Or if I am, it is because I am on the bus going to school and sneaking bites of a croissant out of my backpack (eating in public is not often done, unless you have a marvelous ice cream cone or crèpe that you would like to show off to salivating bystanders. You are also sort of allowed to break off the ends of your baguette and nibble as you walk down the street).
The market did enchant me, for I am a well-heeled shopper of the 16th. Okay, “well-heeled” may be a big stretch, but I was certainly enchanted. I shook my head as I wandered its length, marveling at the still-gasping fish and the skinned rabbits and the tiny, beautiful and expensive wild strawberries. I made a few purchases – some merguez sausage, heirloom tomatoes, a bouquet of flowers, some olive bread, and then had this exchange with a stocky, jovial woman selling cheese:
Me (in crude French): I am looking for a cheese for figs.
Jovial cheesemongress: What? (This is how most of my conversations in French begin.)
Me: For figs. For the figs. A cheese? (Gesturing nervously at all the cheese on display between us.)
Jovial cheesemongress: Ah. For figs. (Initially appearing stunned that someone could not know the correct cheese to eat with figs, but then politely recovering herself.) Chevre.
Me: Okay. (Awkward pause.)
Jovial cheesemongress: Did you want a certain type?
Me: I don’t know. I do not know the chevres.
Jovial cheesemongress: Or blue. Chevre or blue.
Me: Okay. I think blue. For two people.
Jovial cheesemongress: Did you want a certain… (She trails off and gives up, selecting a random blue and wrapping up a wedge.)
Me: Thank you very much! (Relieved, blubbering slightly, I scurry off clutching my prize.)
Welcome to my life. I generally just choose merchants that are already actively smiling before I arrive, in order to avoid provoking the dreaded steely-eyed gaze when I fail to make myself understood. I hate the steely-eyed gaze.
On Sunday morning, I experienced a moment of bliss and then an hour of mild depression. I was eating a croissant, drinking a café au lait and reading my Thomas Hardy book at a touristy café near the St. Michel fountain. My hot waiter was flirting shamelessly with me. The sun was shining and the croissant was buttery and light and flaky and the coffee was rich and creamy. All was perfect and right in the world.
Then I went to the Bird Market on the Ile de la Cité. I always gravitate towards bird markets when traveling because I love birds and I miss my pet parrot, and I mistakenly believe that the market will be a cheerful congregation of like-minded bird-lovers who have toted along their singing canaries to a communal place in order to display them proudly and discussing their merits with other interested parties.
Instead bird markets end up making me hate the world. The birds are shoved into tiny, dirty cages and are fed unhealthy diets and don’t have any toys to stimulate them. It’s heart-breaking. And some are roasting in the sun, and others don’t have water, and overall it’s just not a happy place. And then they get sold to other people who buy unhealthy diets and tiny cages for them, and away they go, and the cycle continues.
And yes, I do understand that I'm a giant hypocrite. Skinned bunnies for dinner? Yes! Gasping fish slowly perishing on ice? Sign me up! Parrots squashed together in a cage? My eyes well with tears. I know it's dumb and wrong to think this way. If I was a well-heeled shopper in 1873, maybe I might have selected a nice exotic parrot for a fancy dinner. Who knows.
After that I poked around St. Michel and stopped for coffee at Deux Magots (because, you know, you have to) and then started shaking from all the caffeine, so I ate a falafel to take the edge off. Finally, I came home and made a tartiflette, inspired by the recent discussion on Becks & Posh. I didn't photograph it because I made it on the fly, and had no idea what it was supposed to look like. When it came out of the oven I thought, "Wow, that's one ugly little casserole. I probably did something hideously wrong. I am too ashamed to show this to anyone." But yum, it was good, and I guess they all look like that.
Et voila, le weekend.
1873! That’s almost impossible to comprehend.
I was motivated to arrive early because I suspect that the most extreme food action in Paris happens in the wee hours of the morning. I can’t really confirm this, though, because I am rarely awake then. Or if I am, it is because I am on the bus going to school and sneaking bites of a croissant out of my backpack (eating in public is not often done, unless you have a marvelous ice cream cone or crèpe that you would like to show off to salivating bystanders. You are also sort of allowed to break off the ends of your baguette and nibble as you walk down the street).
The market did enchant me, for I am a well-heeled shopper of the 16th. Okay, “well-heeled” may be a big stretch, but I was certainly enchanted. I shook my head as I wandered its length, marveling at the still-gasping fish and the skinned rabbits and the tiny, beautiful and expensive wild strawberries. I made a few purchases – some merguez sausage, heirloom tomatoes, a bouquet of flowers, some olive bread, and then had this exchange with a stocky, jovial woman selling cheese:
Me (in crude French): I am looking for a cheese for figs.
Jovial cheesemongress: What? (This is how most of my conversations in French begin.)
Me: For figs. For the figs. A cheese? (Gesturing nervously at all the cheese on display between us.)
Jovial cheesemongress: Ah. For figs. (Initially appearing stunned that someone could not know the correct cheese to eat with figs, but then politely recovering herself.) Chevre.
Me: Okay. (Awkward pause.)
Jovial cheesemongress: Did you want a certain type?
Me: I don’t know. I do not know the chevres.
Jovial cheesemongress: Or blue. Chevre or blue.
Me: Okay. I think blue. For two people.
Jovial cheesemongress: Did you want a certain… (She trails off and gives up, selecting a random blue and wrapping up a wedge.)
Me: Thank you very much! (Relieved, blubbering slightly, I scurry off clutching my prize.)
Welcome to my life. I generally just choose merchants that are already actively smiling before I arrive, in order to avoid provoking the dreaded steely-eyed gaze when I fail to make myself understood. I hate the steely-eyed gaze.
On Sunday morning, I experienced a moment of bliss and then an hour of mild depression. I was eating a croissant, drinking a café au lait and reading my Thomas Hardy book at a touristy café near the St. Michel fountain. My hot waiter was flirting shamelessly with me. The sun was shining and the croissant was buttery and light and flaky and the coffee was rich and creamy. All was perfect and right in the world.
Then I went to the Bird Market on the Ile de la Cité. I always gravitate towards bird markets when traveling because I love birds and I miss my pet parrot, and I mistakenly believe that the market will be a cheerful congregation of like-minded bird-lovers who have toted along their singing canaries to a communal place in order to display them proudly and discussing their merits with other interested parties.
Instead bird markets end up making me hate the world. The birds are shoved into tiny, dirty cages and are fed unhealthy diets and don’t have any toys to stimulate them. It’s heart-breaking. And some are roasting in the sun, and others don’t have water, and overall it’s just not a happy place. And then they get sold to other people who buy unhealthy diets and tiny cages for them, and away they go, and the cycle continues.
And yes, I do understand that I'm a giant hypocrite. Skinned bunnies for dinner? Yes! Gasping fish slowly perishing on ice? Sign me up! Parrots squashed together in a cage? My eyes well with tears. I know it's dumb and wrong to think this way. If I was a well-heeled shopper in 1873, maybe I might have selected a nice exotic parrot for a fancy dinner. Who knows.
After that I poked around St. Michel and stopped for coffee at Deux Magots (because, you know, you have to) and then started shaking from all the caffeine, so I ate a falafel to take the edge off. Finally, I came home and made a tartiflette, inspired by the recent discussion on Becks & Posh. I didn't photograph it because I made it on the fly, and had no idea what it was supposed to look like. When it came out of the oven I thought, "Wow, that's one ugly little casserole. I probably did something hideously wrong. I am too ashamed to show this to anyone." But yum, it was good, and I guess they all look like that.
Et voila, le weekend.
posted by cindym at 2:08 PM
7 Comments:
Enjoyable as always. Such a great combination of candid writing and an enviable opportunity in Paris. And it seems like your pictures are getting better. Thanks for sharing.
Thanks so much for your wonderful blog. I'm enjoying Paris vicariously through it!
I enjoyed "experiencing" your weekend :-) Such nice bounty from the market!
hi cindy,
mark left your site opened on the comp screen and i'm glad he did .. i like your down-to-earth writing and respect you challenging yourself at Paris
good luck
Thanks Brent!
That head dish on your site is totally nasty. I keep seeing veal's head on menus here. No thanks. Not yet...
Thanks everybody for the nice comments - you guys are all posting such beautiful food pics on your blogs too:
Thank you, "me". I like your site - that meatloaf is making me crave a good old American dinner.
Joey - I checked out your Nutella cupcakes...mmmmmm...I saw a whole cookbook here (in French) where every recipe involves Nutella. I may have to buy it.
Hi Tian - Thanks for reading my site. I am jealous of your pumpkin sourdough bread. Sounds delish!
seriously, i dont think u're a giant hypocrite when u saw the birds being squeezed into tiny cages and getting roasted in the sun. I understand the feeling of helplessness and being sad cos those birds are suffering...these animals have to bear the suffering of hunger, thirst and lack of space and movement. If they get lucky, they get picked up soon enough by a genuine pet lover. If they are not, they get picked up by some tom dick or harry who further abuses the animal.
but think about it... the fish, ducks, meats, etc, we're eating are well fed on farm(or not)... almost on certain, at least, they lived a better life before being slaughtered.
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