Markets are the soul and substance of France. All over the country, usually on a Sunday morning, French citizens flock to their local markets to barter, socialize, stroll and stock up on weekly provisions. My market is a 20-minute walk from my apartment and takes place on Sunday and Wednesday mornings. Here are some scenes.
Plump scallops on the half shell, glistening sea bass, and scampi:
This scene below cracked me up. The customers, engaged in animated conversation with the vendor, are seemingly unaware (or unperturbed) by the fact that a dead piglet is hanging ignominiously on a hook in front of them (This little piggy went to market…) It’s called a cochon de lait which means suckling pig, so we can correctly assume that it was snatched from it’s mother’s teat and then slaughtered. Also below are skinned rabbits.
Goose eggs, fresh oysters from the Atlantic Coast, sausage and sauerkraut, mangos from Africa, tulips and hyacinths from Holland.
Some friendly gazes and some not so friendly. It’s worth noting that this market is in a fairly well-heeled district as you can probably tell by the fur coats and supercilious air of some of the denizens. I’ll find another market next time.
Laden with produce, I repaired to the nearest café for a tartine and espresso. As you can see, a tartine is simply half a baguette spread with butter. I wouldn’t have minded a dollop of raspberry jam on top, but they were all out.