Market day

I speak French with an accent. My accent isn't horrific, but to native speakers it's noticeable. I am reminded of this from time to time as I speak with different French folks in different situations. I like to think that my accent isn't that noticeable, but instead, that people realize I am a foreigner when I begin to search for a simple word and let out a very American “ugh” rather than a French “eh.” In my mind my accent is indistinguishable, but once I speak, yeah, I hear it. I was reminded of this earlier this week when at a market. Molly and I went to the small town of Romans-sur-Isère to visit a friend, Kelsey, who is also from Colorado.
Markets are very important in France. Local farmers come from their nearby farms to set up tables and sell their produce, meat or wine and to chat and get the lowdown from other farmers or customers. Large towns tend to have a lot of markets throughout the week. Every market has beautiful produce, a butcher in a converted van that resembles an American lunch cart and many old people that move slower than escargots as they look over apples and lettuce. The leeks are the largest leeks I have ever in my life seen and just scream to be turned into Vichyssoise with those golden potatoes to the left.
In a large town, six, sometimes seven days a week you can find this delicious selection on display to suggest the flavors of the season for your dinner table. Small towns, however, are a little different. The leeks are just as big. The mushrooms, picked the afternoon before, are just as fragrant as those in large towns. The elderly move at about the same pace as their metropolitan bridge partners. The difference is the “grandesse”of the event.
The small town of Romans-sur-Isère has only one large square and it is far too small to contain a Sunday market. Instead, the market in Romans winds through the town, around a large cathedral and along the Isère river. Before you know it, you have made a loop and are admiring the very same carrots with which you began the brief kilometer walk. As there are only three market days in the town, everyone makes an appearance on Sunday. Four different vendors are selling roasted chickens. Get there early if you want a small chicken, those suckers move fast.
I follow the same course at every market: I make a tour of the entire market to admire and price the produce I need for the night's meal and to see what else catches my eye. I always find something in every market that intrigues me. There is often a chili pepper I do not recognize or a fuzzy wheel of cheese that needs tasting. Produce always fascinates me at these markets because I am able to compare prices and names to American counterparts. The cheese, however, calls me to it in a different manner. Maybe it's the fragrance, maybe the people selling it, maybe the marvel of the process, but certainly the flavors have something to do with it!
Having made my tour of the market in Romans, I was prepared to commit to certain vendors and alter my dinner plans to include the seasonal mushrooms I saw in Rue du Fuseau. I also had a plan for the afternoon's picnic and on the top of the list was the cheese. Having selected the vendor from my tour, I slowly made my way to the quai where they were stationed and along the way buying half a chicken, some grapes, those mushrooms I mentioned before, a bottle of wine and, naturally, a baguette. Coming upon the cheese vendor Molly, Kelsey and I discussed what kind of cheese might fit our appetites. Upon greeting the two “veneuses” behind the piles of cheese, our game plan changed.
A simple “bonjour” goes a long way in a French market and can make anyone smile. From behind the cheese, two women with recently coiffed, gray hair looked up from their conversation and adjusted their glasses. I addressed the woman on the left first as the woman on the right had a lazy eye and I tend to focus on the wrong one.
“Bonjour monsieur, dames,” we were greeted with smiles.
Kelsey asked about Gruyère and I asked about chèvre. Then came the question... “Where are you from?” Damn!
We explained where we are from and the response was, “Are you lost?” Did I mention that Romans is a small town?
The explanation led to some very local cheeses being presented and tasted and a simple pride the French possess led to information about cheese making and recommendations about serving and other flavors that pair well with the cheeses. I finally was able to find which eye to focus on when speaking with the woman on the right just in time to bid her adieu and make my way along the quai to eat our afternoon meal.
Saving the best for last, we dipped into our cheese selection and relaxed in the sun as we finished our bottle of wine. We raised out glasses a final time and praised our educators for their recommendations and decided that our French need not be perfect. Had we known the correct vocab or not given ourselves away with accents, we would not have experienced such a fine showing of French hospitality.

I embelleshed some of this because it is going to a magazine where I'm applying for a spot as a correspondent. Most of this happened... the mushrooms, the lazy eye, the wine. Just hope that I get this writing gig because it would pay 600 bucks. Word.

- Patrick