My weekend mornings here in Paris are usually spent at les marchés, those wonderful outdoor markets that straddle busy streets every day of the week somewhere in the city. There is a small one in my neighborhood here in the eleventh arrondissement that arrives twice a week. It always seems to sneak in under the cover of night because it suddenly appears, seemingly to rise up from the wide concrete median strip on Boulevard Charonne, fully grown and thriving, every Wednesday and Saturday morning, rain or shine.
When I first arrived here, this market was a revelation. Everything that Julia Child had written about finally made sense. Rows of artfully displayed vegetables in dazzling colors lined covered stalls along the street. The vivid red of poivrons rouges glowed against the bright, clean green of the lettuce and watercress. Piles of bright orange carrots contrasted against long lines of leeks and lemons. Nearby was a stand with different cheeses; a crottin, the small round goat cheese from the Midi, the tart, tangy bleu from Auvergne, and of course the famous brie. Then there were the meat stands with pink veal hearts, brains and dark livers along side deep terrines filled with pâté maison of duck and rabbit. It was all overwhelming.
It was paradise.
Six years later it’s still is a marvel. I’m always discovering something new at the markets, new cheeses, new pâtés, and new variations on favorite foods. There are stalls of cut flowers, tables piled to overflowing with shirts, pants, coats, bras, underwear, gloves and socks; stands with fresh fish, lobsters, the sweet St. Jacques scallops, étrilles, succulent tiny crabs used in soups and stocks, side by side with bubbling fish soup. Stalls displaying cheap kitchen gadgets, batteries, bed linens, tablecloths, recordable DVD disks and light bulbs stand next to stalls with six varieties of mushrooms and fresh herbs. Every week there is a long stall with take-away foods; quiches and gratins, stuffed tomatoes or cabbages, steaming potatoes and sausages, sometimes with boudin noir, the classic French blood sausage.
It was there where I tasted my first brandade, a peasant dish of pureed salted cod and potatoes with spices. Last week I bought a small container of Aligot, a mixture of a soft, stringy cheese from the Auvergne region mixed with mashed potatoes with garlic and juice of grilled sausages. There are many Saturday afternoons where I don’t cook at all and still eat like a true French paysan.
There have been some changes in my market within the short time I’ve been here. The potato merchant has gone, replaced by a stand selling spicy, deep fried beignets of cod, shrimp or vegetables from Africa. A new arrival is the man stirring a giant tub of couscous with aromatic lamb and vegetable kebabs grilling behind him.
I’ve become a regular customer at a few of the stands. I’m greeted with a big smile, a handshake and a hearty “Bonjour, ça va?” Though they may not know my name, they know I’m an American from California and they know I like to cook. There is a pride each of the vendors display in his or her expertise and aren’t shy about sharing it. I’ve learned many tricks and techniques on cooking various pieces of meats or what cheese melts best for my pâte au trios fromage (the French version of mac‘n’ cheese). When I order a gigot d’agneau, the rotund, red-faced meat seller makes a great display of his butchering prowess and hands the leg of lamb to me as a special gift, almost literally a sacrifice to a select customer. I bow slightly and exclaim “Vous êtes un vrai artiste! You are a true artist!” He nods to the obvious truth and smiles. We understand each other perfectly.
Sunday morning finds me at the Marché d’Aligre, a 10-minute walk from my apartment. It’s larger and offers a wider variety of fruits, cheeses and more esoteric foodstuffs such as olive oils in large stainless steel vats or a coffee shop that roasts its beans in-house. Though the marché is open six days a week, Sundays are best … but not for the faint of heart. The crowds are thick and the noise is thicker. Vendors shout and scream over their neighbors, vocally advertising the new strawberries or tomatoes. I trip over a chariot, a wheeled shopping cart pulled by an oblivious customer at a stand displaying ginger, limes and passion fruit. Today the organ grinder is here. Tinny pipes play some sort of folk song as the organ grinder sings while turning the crank on the music maker. A block away is a small band of drums, trumpets and other brass.
I try to escape the noise and walk down a block to the Baron Rouge, an old wine shop that sells wine out of large wooden barrels. Today I brought a couple of empty bottles. The caviste will fill them with a passable Merlot or Touraine for two or three Euros per liter. Then I’ll order a glass of Muscadet at the bar and walk outside to the standing tables and order a dozen raw oysters, husked there in front of me. The salty, crisp cold meat slips down my throat easily just like this Sunday morning at the market has slipped by.
I need to go back home, soak some beans, chop some garlic and decide just what the heck I’m eating for dinner tonight.
Doug Cushman is a former Redding artist and author who now lives and works in Paris. He was born in Springfield, Ohio and moved to Connecticut with his family when he was 15 years old. While in high school he created comic books lampooning his teachers, selling them to his classmates for a nickel a piece.
Since 1978, he has illustrated and/or written more than 100 books for children and collected a number of honors, including a Reuben Award for Book Illustration from the National Cartoonists Society, New York Times Children’s Books Best Sellers, and the New York Public Library’s Best 100 Books of 2000. He enjoys hiking, kayaking and cooking (and eating!). Learn more about Doug, his art and his books at his Web site, http://www.doug-cushman.com/index.htm
