In Europe in general, but in France in particular, it might seem that nobody buys fruits or vegetables. Stores tend to carry little uncooked food, even supermarkets seem understocked by American standards. The reason, of course is that most serious cooks buy their groceries only on certain days and only from another individual – in other words, at a market. Paris has a wonderful variety of food bazaars, with an emphasis on the neighborhood rather than on centrality.
It would be wrong to claim that the French have continued to shop the way they always have. In actuality, they've succumbed more than many to the supermarket. French people generally are prosperous, they have cars, they like variety in their diet and they have giant shopping complexes available to them everywhere - all ingredients for commercialization. If you go into any Monoprix or Intermarché, you will find people filling their carts with packaged food.
But the French also have a determined resolve not to turn their backs on tradition, and it sometimes seems that the proliferation of supermarkets has spurred something of a market-square renaissance here. Both buyers and merchants seem hungry to take part in a system that eschews sameness and offers something inimitably French.
At the concise Marché Belleville (Tuesdays and Fridays), on Boulevard de Belleville in the 20e arrondissement, white vans line the streets and nattily green-striped stands crowd together under leafy plane trees. Everything culinary is available – from frog’s legs to exotic fruits, spices to foi gras – but the vendors are fairly specialized, making shopping more about perusing than comparison.
The Marché Bastille (Thursday and Sunday), on Boulevard Richard Lenoire in the 11e, was the largest and busiest market we visited, with many more prepared foods. A kind of carnival atmosphere pervades the wide thoroughfare, with musicians and dancers performing for coins and a large contingent of tourists.
At the Marché Couvert Beauvau (Tuesday through Sunday), at the place d’Aligre, also part of the 11e, a small old market house contains meat, cheese and some canned goods. Outside, a long street overflows with vegetables and fruits. The smell of fish and cooking chicken drifts through the throng, wafting out from the permanent stores that cluster the periphery.
There is a change in the light between indoors and outdoors, and with it a shift in the centuries. Inside, the muted, dusty light and old metal grating evoke old Europe. It begs to be disbelieved as a touristy trick, but it isn’t. The people scurrying through the shadows carry baskets and crates, the mood is mercantile in a small, un-meditated way. Pates and Saint-Nectaires, anchovies and caviar are temptations. On the street, potatoes, lettuce and onions are things of utility. Outside, things are rushed and efficient - inside, it’s easy to linger and let the mouth water.
In Paris, there is something different about the markets. While there are still plenty of older women who haggle over pennies, there is also a different type of younger, more stylish shopper. People bring their children, they dress up, they are very interested in heirloom tomatoes (who isn’t, actually?). It reminds me of the American iteration, the “farmer’s market,” where the point is not only price or convenience, but partly the experience of shopping itself. It begs the question, of course, of whether the more exotic of the city’s offerings are meant to entice this younger set, who have likely turned away from the root vegetable and embraced the more obscure and delicate?
This market gentrification, if you will, helps distinguish between stands. In some countries, the volume of the seller’s voice is perhaps the greatest difference between bananas from one stand or another. Here, the origin of different goods actually appears to be quite different. Not that the vendors are quiet. They bellow and implore just as much as any of their foreign comrades and counterparts. The din invites nightmares about walking down these market streets alone, with no crowd around to cushion the shouts and demands.
Something I love about all market streets is the definite, unique patina that they acquire over time. Even when the stands have been packed up and the shoppers have all gone home to their kitchens, the concrete and stone itself seems to bear the worn imprint of a thousand frenetic mornings. The curbs and cobblestones are more polished from the foot traffic and the sweeping-up brooms, the shops along the sides are of a particular species not found on other avenues. It reminds me of a dry riverbed, where the rock has been rounded and the trees are of a different type – the landscape, even quiet and empty, shows the rush of activity that's shaped it.
Brittany's northern coast is a beautiful, salty stretch of land. This is far from the sand and glamor of the Côte d'Azur and the Aquitaine coast, and has none of the tourist and war hubs of Normandy or the dramatic cliffs of Picardy. Even the southern coast of Brittany is better traveled, with Morbihan's broad beaches and milder weather. But there is a lot here, in what is called "La Côte d'Emeraude" (the "Emerald Coast"). One senses that it is a forgotten region, with things to discover and unspoiled, quiet stretches that are both lonely and lovely.
The tourism that is here mostly spills westward along the eastern stretch of land. Visitors to Mont Saint-Michel and the Normandy hordes make small inroads and daytrips along the shore, most making it no further than St. Malo, the medieval walled city on the bay. Cancale, where we stopped for oysters, is busy, and some of the beaches along that way are sandy enough for lounging, but the crowds thin as the land grows rougher.
By Paimpol, about halfway out Brittany's spit of land, trawlers and fishing vessels outnumber pleasurecraft, and the waterfront cafes are full of crewmen. The land might seem meager, but the waters are rich with life, and small boats are able to turn a profit in the surrounding coves and further out in the English channel. More than half of France's domestic fishing haul is caught by boats based in Brittany. Three quarters of the domestic mussels are also sourced from here, and 100,000 tons of seaweed is harvested annually. Pretty harbor towns are tucked into coves, where men still sing sea shanties in the evenings and wear galoshes and slickers.
Brittany is a Celtic land, with it's own dialect - Breton, or Brehoneg in Gaelic. While only about three percent of the population is still fluent in the tongue, the local accent is heavily influenced and the culture is decidedly different than the rest of France. Bagpipes play on the radio, beer and cider are more popular than wine, the widespread catholicism has more Welsh and Irish traditions than French. The people have warily embraced France, but there's a long history of persecution against the Bretons, and a strong sense of independence.
Still, some of the things that are most stereotypically French have their roots in this stretch of coast. Galettes and crêpes were created here, and the black and white striped shirts (and wide straw hats) of lore had their origins with the "Onion Johnnies" that travelled from Roscoff to Great Britain in the 19th and early 20th centuries. Onion farmers from the coastal region used to travel by ferry to England's coast, where they would sell their harvest on their bicycles, dressed in the distinctive clothing of the region.
The small, slate-roofed town of Paimpol, where we have been staying, was once an important cod fishing center, with scores of boats and an economy dominated by the catch. For hundreds of years, and as late as the 19th century, crews left from here in search of "la morue", spending stretches of six to eight months on the sea. During the latter part of Paimpol's history with cod, the boats spent most of their time off the coast of Iceland, where the fish bred and spawned. A fascinating museum in the town details the life of the seamen and features a great collection of model ships and nautical paraphernalia.
It's strange to see people sitting on the pebbly sand in sweaters and long pants, their hair whipped by a cool wind. A cold coast conjures up involuntary thoughts of sun and warmth, but none of the heat-innebriated, uninhibited surrender of a July weekend. A kind of mournful quietness comes over every seaside town in September. It's accentuated what we've felt here, that we have come to the end of both France's land and its frenetic season. Our campsite has been growing emptier every day, the seaside walkway feels more deserted. A period of cool weather and rain has swept in off the straight, and the smell of autumn mixes with the rotting kelp and salt air.
