Today is my favourite day of the French week. It commences with a welcomed lie-in after my arduous week in classes (cough), followed by a visit to the market. It’s incredible to see two large, rather grim-looking basketball courts, usually home to the hobos of Pau, transform into the magnificent, buzzing, colourful market that is Les Halles. The place is crammed with local cultivators who furnish the courts with rows and rows of their home-grown, fresh and largely organic fruit, vegetables, cheese, eggs, herbs, meat, honey and milk. Movement is limited by the hoards of animated Pau citizens from every background, who flood here every weekend to stock up on provisions. It really is a wonderful place to do one’s weekly shop, and highlights the horrendous quality, evil mass consumption and utter tedium of Tesco, Asda, Sainsbury’s and their competitors. Here, farmers don’t need to sell their produce to supermarkets because they have places like Les Halles to go every day of the week (except Sundays). Farmers markets in Britain should be brought back to their grass roots, away from their middle class stigma and be made accessible to all. Who cares if a cauliflower is 100% certified organic if you know that it has been grown within five miles of your home, and in the same way that it has been cultivated for generations?
I have also started buying meat from the butchers, instead of L’Eclerc or Auchun. It is very comforting to see beef mince prepared right in front of your eyes, and to know that it comes straight from the cow without a load of additives added.
To my some wheat allergy-induced excitement, I later found a little independent shop which Cecile recommended with a huge gluten-free section, and stocked up on bread, rice cakes and, most exciting of all, lasagne sheets! I haven’t eaten lasagne for about a year. The kind gentleman behind the counter also gave me some gluten free biscuits to try and to report back to him about, as he was wondering whether to stock up on them (they ended up being decidedly too crunchy). I’m hoping that I will be used as a gluten-free guinea pig for new products on a regular basis.
On my return, I made a pumpkin and carrot potage with my newly-purchased vegetables, and listened to some French radio. Much of it did not go understood, but I did appreciate the thrilling combination of music all within about twenty minutes: of a rap against the government, Edith Piaf, a classical choral composition and the French translation of ‘Hey Mr Tambourine Man’ all within around twenty minutes.
I’m definitely starting to understand why the rate of obesity is half and heart-disease related deaths a third of ours in Blighty. The French eat food straight from its source, whether it is the earth or the animal. Barely anything is added in between, apart from a few herbs and spices to bring out the flavour. And they eat a good portion of this food three times a day, without fatty snacks between meals. Alors, bon appetite.