French Country Markets Sarah Walton www.thehedonista.com It’s 6:30am on a Saturday. You might think this was the beginning of the day, but the small rabble sitting on the next table are having wine with their lunch. There is a minute amount of time for them to injest the cafes are open, but the market as yet is not. In half an hour, they will lift the worn hessian covers and reveal their pristine, straight-fromthe-horses-mouth (so to speak) produce. For now though, they drink wine and break bread with their competitors and colleagues alike. Some, like me, opt for a more sedate cafe au lait and croissant. The market runs until 1pm, but I know full well that by then, the stalls will be all but empty, the carparks will all be gone, and the tables at all the best cafes already seated. It’s not punishment, even on a holiday to be here at this time. Three of my favourite things all rolled into one – travel, food and shopping. I also have this quiet moment to myself. At a more reasonable hour, my family will join me at a restaurant nearby, where I will show them my treasures and share a pichet de rosé over something simple and delicious like a salade de chèvre chaud. Soon the stall owners move. One grabs the remnants of the bouteille de vin by the neck, and tucks it under his cheese display. As the sun moves its way over the rooftops and into the square, the shrouds are lifted and the vicinity simultaneously fills with people and colour. I stroll the narrow aisles, simply tables and umbrellas propped against shop-fronts or under awnings. Seafood sleeps in a beds of crushed ice, scallop shells arranged to form divisions between the species. Saucisson and chevre coated in varying degrees of mould, rind, ash, and other forms of gorgeous putridity - keep each other
company in baskets or chilled compartments. No time for window shopping – there is too much to cover. Luckily I have a cool bag, and a selection gets popped in for dinner. There is a chicken rotisserie spinning, potatoes at the bottom, gathering the heavily seasoned dripping. The chicken is not ready yet, but the spuds are. Breakfast number two. Of course, there are the fruits and vegetables, arranged like something out of a designer magazine, with simplicity and flair. The colours are
sublime, and the produce is often organic (biologique). They smell like a bouquet – so sweet and fragrant, particularly the strawberries and tomatoes. They taste so good, it’s like they have been injected with magic. Then the condiments. Spices, shipped from afar, but of course presented with unique french style. They are expensive, but again, today they are organic, and surprisingly fresh. They are sold by bohemians in overalls, with knotted headscarves and dreadlocks. They 53