Going to the market in France isn’t so much a shopping experiene as it is an experience in culture–in America, we readily throw on our pajama pants and go to the local supermarket to stock up as though the end of the world is on its way, but many people in France still go to a weekly or even a daily market to pick up the odds and ends they’ll need for dinner, storing it all in small bar fridges: since moving here, I’ve only seen a giant fridge with double doors at the Parisian’s parents hotel… and it was a professional kitchen.
My trip back to Cannes this year has shown me a side of the city I never knew, and I’m forever being surprised by things I had no idea about when I thought that Cannes was my backyard, more than three years ago. Not surprisingly, at least to those who know me well, a lot of these new revelations have to do with food. As I mentioned, when I first lived in Cannes, my forays outside the salle à manger, where food was free, were few and far between, but since coming to Cannes this time, I’ve seen new things that never even crossed my radar before, one of which is this marché.
In some ways, the marché de Forville reminds me of my beloved Paris markets, especially the one at rue Monge, where all the sellers flirt shamelessly with any woman younger to be their mother. The flirtation is here too–the atmosphere seems more charged, somehow, than that of the bars and clubs at night. Everything is a game to be won; there is strategy and deception, women pretending to lose interest so the vendor will lower his prices.
As for me, I play the game the way I always have: I smile and ask questions, demand (nicely!) that the vendors pick the best melon, the best cheese, the best strawberries. After all, they know best. They love that I know.
The Nomad, Brother and I walked down to the Marché de Forville one afternoon to pick up some odds and ends for a picnic dinner: sheepsmilk cheese, fresh baguette, peaches, perfectly sweet tomatoes and the best strawberries I’ve ever had.
“Here,” the vendor said after praising my French up and down and acting surprised when I said I was a foreigner. “The best you’ve ever had.” He handed me a tiny strawberry and one to the Nomad, and then he gave me one more.
“Share with your brother,” he said. “Je n’oserai pas.” I woudn’t dare. When I translated this for Brother later, he was quite pleased. I’m not exactly sure what it was about it, but it seemed like the perfect market moment. Maybe it was just the strawberries.
March̩ de Forville РPlace du March̩ de Forville, near the Suquet
Yummy…what a day and titillating experience for all the senses. Le frigo still smells like cheese!