On Sunday mornings I like to go out for coffee and then walk up to the organic market on Boulevard Raspail. There’s an urban-pastoral fantasy of going to the market, filling up a basket with fresh produce, and coming home to prepare a beautiful meal or picnicking in a park, but the reality is that I have lunch and dinner plans almost every day this week. The last thing I want is to throw away food (especially food this pricey). Still, I like going, even if I’m not going to buy anything.
There are gorgeous cheeses, intimidating meats, and loads of vegetables, mostly robust and fresh, usually from France but sometimes from Spain or further afield, but all organic, or bio, short for biologique. A rabbit would be happy here, hopping among the expansive heads of lettuce and nibbling radishes. I gravitate toward the strawberries and fresh chèvre.
But what really gets me out of bed on a Sunday morning in Paris is the guy frying up potato-onion galettes at the market entrance. Wait, that came out wrong: It’s the galettes, not the man frying them. They’re cooked on a well-seasoned cast iron griddle and passed over, piping hot, in a little paper sack, with one single, insufficient napkin.
Strolling home from the market today, I dropped my galette. I stood stunned for a moment, and then picked it up and threw it away, cursing.
Next week, I thought, I’ll get two. Just in case.