Red geraniums are seen everywhere in France during the summer.

Chapter Four
Foot-Less In France

In the States, I knew eating would be different in France when I asked Maurice if he wanted some French dressing on his salad and he asked me what that was. I showed him the bottle of the orange liquid I had in my refrigerator and he said, with a rather distressed look, “Why don’t you let me make the salad dressing?” True to a traditional vinaigrette, his dressing had Dijon mustard in it. It was a lovely muted yellow and tasted light and fresh.
So when we moved to Paris, I was slightly prepared for differences in food. I knew the shopping would be challenging and that many people bought their provisions at the colorful street markets that are found not only in Paris, but all over Europe. But my first experience at a market is the one I remember the most.
A trip to the market is a wonderful experience. It involves all of the senses. Your eyes can hardly take in all of the colors of the fruits and vegetables spread out and piled up - purple eggplants, gleaming, tomatoes lustrous and juicy, green zucchinis laid out in rows like soldiers or spread out like green fans, mountains of cherries just picked and succulent under their tight red-black skins. A whiff of the dirt still clinging to the potatoes whisks you to the country, as does the fresh scent of basil just cut and bundled into little bouquets. The vendors are calling out their specials to tempt you to stop, and sometimes hand out samples, such as a wedge of melon or a peach to show how fresh and tasty their wares are. You can touch a tomato or melon but it’s best to let the vendor pick out your selection so it is ripe and ready to eat when you get home.
On my first trip, we walked past bins of cheeses, white and yellow, soft and hard, some with blue lines running through them. There were huge rounds of cheese the diameter of a tire from which the cheese was cut into slices for customers crowding around. There were little round white cheeses from goat’s milk, the flatter, softer lozenges of Brie, and a hard cheese in a wonderful apricot-orange color. I haven’t had much experience in cheeses other than cheddar and that Ameri-cheese standby, Velveeta.
Maurice has introduced me to a whole new world of cheeses. Some of them are too strong to me, both in taste and smell. In fact, sometimes when I open the refrigerator and am assaulted by very strong smells my first instinct is to find out what has spoiled. Then I remember that Maurice has bought some cheese. It’s a gradual process, but I’ve come to love some cheeses that I’d never heard of before.
The first time I went grocery shopping with Maurice, we stood in front of the cheese section of the store for a very long time while he decided which cheese he wanted. It was a gourmet store in the States with cheeses from all over the world. I recognized the names Brie and Camembert and that was about all. He took longer to make his selection than I do to choose a dress. That’s when I realized how important cheese was to the French - at least this Frenchman. Let’s not even bring up the subject of choosing wines - that’s another chapter all by itself.
The first cheese I tried in Paris was actually on a salad - a “Salade Chèvre Chaude.” It’s a round slice of goat cheese on bread that is toasted under the grill then placed atop salad greens. The first few bites are an incredible blend of flavors, textures and temperatures. There is the soft warmth of the cheese, the crunch of the toast, the tart vinaigrette on the cool lettuce, sweet tomato and, if you are lucky, the slight bittersweet taste of crunchy walnuts.
I’ve tried an autumn cheese called “Arômes au Gene de Marc” smothered in dried grape seeds, and a cheese wrapped in chestnut tree leaves called “Banon (à la Feuille).” At a party I discovered Pyrennees cheese that is eaten with a small amount of black cherry jam. An unforgettable treat.
There is also a lady in the market who sells wobbly towers of boxes filled with fresh eggs. They are all brown and beige. I never see any white ones unless they are goose eggs, which are larger. I’ve discovered that the yolks are a much richer color than the eggs that I’ve had in the States. The first time my husband made an omelet, I thought he had added cheddar cheese to the eggs because the omelet was so rich and golden yellow.
I noticed there were different stands for each kind of meat. One place sells beef only, one pork. I can tell it is pork because there is the whole body of a pig turning in a rotisserie, head still attached and the little curled tail stiffly browning in front of the fire. There is also a seafood merchant where there are crabs so recently taken from the ocean that they are still moving. One place offers horsemeat. It looks dark red and low fat and the first time I saw it I mistook it for beef. On closer inspection I noticed a horse head done in brass above the stand and a sign saying “Chevalines.” I don’t see myself ever trying horsemeat, although I do wonder what it tastes like. But it doesn’t keep me awake at night.
We went to the stand selling poultry as we had decided on chicken for lunch. I noticed some tiny bodies sort of stretched out with what looks like perhaps the liver left in. I realized, in shock, that this was rabbit, something my husband loves, but which I just can’t make myself try yet. I have since found out that the kidneys are left in the rabbit to show that it is indeed a rabbit and not something else I don’t want to think about. We thought about buying a chicken already prepared. We saw them slowly rotating in a grill, with the skin turning golden and juice dripping down on potatoes underneath. The aroma floating out almost seduced us, but we had a new oven with a rotisserie at home that we were determined to try.
I looked into the case. There were some chickens but they all still had their heads and feet attached. I am used to chicken being cut into neat, handy pieces and packaged behind cellophane, unrecognisable as an animal. I asked my husband, “Do we have to take the chicken with the feet and head attached? I don’t think I can eat it that way.” I was thrilled to find out that the feet and head would be cut off by the friendly butcher, who said to my husband in French, “Didn’t you have a blond with you last week?” and then winked at me. He then took our chicken over to a table where a huge tank sat with an attached hose. After he whacked off the head and feet, he proceeded to light the end of the hose and when a flame shot out, he moved it slowly back and forth over the chicken, getting rid of any last feathers. When the strong smell of burnt feathers reached me, I wondered if this was too close up and personal; whether I would be able to even eat this bird.
We have a little cart on wheels with a handle that goes with us on all of our market trips. Into the cart went the chicken, along with our purchases of fruits and vegetables. At home, I crossed my fingers and introduced the chicken into our new rotisserie. Voila! It turned out to be marvelously juicy with crisp brown skin, just like the cooked chickens at the market. We rounded out our meal with fresh green beans simmered with tomato, shallots, and basil. This French-style feast included a bottle of white wine from Alsace and a finale of cheese from the Haute Savoie region. It doesn’t get any better than that.