Bordeaux and Palmiers

I love to visit the morning markets here in Paris.

The markets are a great way to get a feel for a certain neighborhood: the one I used to frequent close to the Eiffel Tower was expensive and had a wide variety of things that may be appealing to tourists. There was even a stand that operated like a grocery store produce aisle: customers were free to peruse the merchandise, picking up what they liked and paying for it at a cash register at the end.

At most other markets, this is unheard of. Bartering and discussing your purchases with the seller is an integral part of what shopping at the market is all about.

At my Place Monge market, there are a few regular sellers. I love to watch them interact with one another, discussing their items for sale and how much they sold at another market the day before. I also, of course, love to talk with them myself.

The man at the fish counter loves to flirt with me

“Vous venez d’où, mademoiselle? Canada? Allemagne?”

“Etats-Unis,” I tell him. He smells like fish, but not in an unpleasant way.

“Oh! L’américaine. Je cherche une femme américaine. An American wife, yes?”

I laugh and walk away: I’m not in the market for mackerel or a husband today.

What I do need are peas for my Easter dinner. “Les petits pois, s’il vous plaît. Un kilo.” I point to the peas at one of the vendors. He starts to gather them for me and asks me how I plan to cook them. I love how protective vendors can be of their produce: they want to make sure you’re going to do it right, and if you’re not, they’ll be happy to offer you a recipe.

Fortunately, I know what I’m doing: “Avec du beurre et de la menthe,” I answer. Butter and mint: perfect with lamb. He raises his eyebrows and nods appreciatively.

“Je vais l’essayer.” I’ll try it, he says. He likes new recipes.

“Et un super melon? Vous voulez goûter un super melon?” I don’t really need a melon today, but if it’s really super, I suppose I can try. He hands me a slice and I taste it: it’s like melon concentrate, nothing like the styrofoam melons I’ve tried back in the States. I smile and nod, and he grabs one.

“Vous allez le manger aujourd’hui?”

Yes, I’ll eat it today. I know that if I’d said no, he would have grabbed another one, making sure it would be perfect on the day I planned to eat it. He adds it to the bag with the peas, and I wander off, looking at the rest of the stands. I pop some fresh peas out of their pod and eat them as I stroll: they’re sweet and lovely.

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