Nothing would have kept me from the Prayssac market on a sunny day. This is partly a farmers' market with local produce--eggs, chicken, foie gras, honey, bread, apples and vegetables. But there's a lot of stuff similar to what you can find in the Carrefour supermarket, imported from Spain and Morocco but here sold mainly by people with more character. You hear a lot of patois spoken, a thick soupy accent that sounds a little like Italian. It's too early in the year to hear much English.
The market is along the circular street that rings the church. I am utterly familiar with where each stand is but still have to get my bearings if I leave the ring street for the departmental road or any side streets. First today was the cheese. There are two others but this couple is always mobbed. Why not? The move like Maseratis, never foisting off larger pieces than their customers really wanted, they have great cheese, and they are not too expensive.
Then the spacy organic foods guy. I used to get muesli from him until one time he opened up his gunny sack and a big moust jumped out. He instinctively tried to crush it with his foot. The mouse raced off to a stone wall and frantically tried to dig in to a space between two stones, tail out straight and vibrating. The bio guy was holding his chest, pale and shocked and speechless. I mix my own muesli now.
I got julienne and salmon today. They didn't complain when I made them break a 50 and threw in some parsley and a lemon for free.
This is a new bread person who sometimes has wonderful rye still warm. Today I settled for a narrow baguette (ficelle) of poppy seed, another of sesame and the first ring loaf I've ever persuaded myself to buy. I told myself it is just a regular baguette where the head ate the tail.
For no reason, I usually buy spinach and radishes from this same guy. He also has cabbage and romensco.
The red meat boucherie usually grosses me out but today it looked good enough to eat.
On the way back to the car, I passed the oysters and noticed for the first time he comes from Ile d'Orleon where Anne and Florence went on vacation as girls and where they want to be buried.
One use for stale bread.
