Last weekend my British friend, who has lived in Villamblard for eight years, took me to the Saturday market in Bergerac and introduced me to the local organic producers. The market stalls circle the church in the center of town, most with awnings or umbrellas in case of rain, and with the exception of a few digital scales, decidedly low-tech -- not so much as a calculator in sight.
In fact, shopping for food this way feels agreeably like stepping into the Middle Ages. The men and women I met had very small quantities of vegetables out, in baskets or boxes, with the names and prices written on slates or scraps of paper. The church bells sound on the hour. There is as much talk -- about Sarko, about the latest convoluted irritation caused by the bureaucracy, about food -- as there is commerce. The pace of buying and selling is slower than any American can imagine.
Yesterday I went by myself while Chris took care of Nellie and Julian who were home with the flu. I went around the loop twice, because it's easy to miss somebody. I bought a box of fresh chanterelles that I'd have had to take out a second mortgage to buy at home. I bought 5 different spices from the man who only sells spices and tea; I'd forgotten to look the words up at home and was relieved to see that coriander is coriandre and cumin is cumin. The spice man sized me up (and heard my accent) and began chatting to me in English, and I kept speaking in French. This happens all the time. Everybody wants to get in some practice, and although it sounds awkward, it's actually quite a friendly kind of thing.
From the apple woman I bought six different varieties of apple, the only one I'd heard of is Gala. Next time I'll take the time to write down the names. From the sturdy young man in muddy boots, I got brussels sprouts, spinach, and mâche. On Saturday, I'll go back, for this is a twice a week ritual, to get the freshest vegetables, and, if I knew people better, the freshest gossip.
Last night for dinner Chris made a stunning crème fraîche and champagne sauce for some veal, and it was fantastic on the chanterelles. Food is personal here, so personal that even strangers like us know, for instance, that the veal on our plates was raised by a leftist of the Green Party. We finished up with some prunes Chris got last week, that come from Agen, a town a bit south of here. Shockingly, they taste like...plums! Absolutely delicious.
My only regret at abandoning the Mussidan market for the one in Bergerac is that we'll be missing chicken man, who sells the best rotisserie chicken in the universe. But maybe if I take a few extra turns around the church, I'll find a chicken man in Bergerac too.
