As a small boy in Monmauraualt, I was wakened each Wednesday in the pink dawn by the barking of dogs and the bellowing of cattle as farmers drove their livestock through the streets to the market place, livery town in France, no matter how small, has at least one market place; in our town, there were two. One was le champ de foire, where livestock for sale was tied to the century-old iron railings that marked off the fairgrounds in the center of the town. The other was a covered market place, where the farmers rented stalls to show their dairy products, fruits, vegetables, and flowers, all arranged with the greatest care and precision. All the produce was fresh and crisp, at its peak of perfection, and the vegetables in each bunch or basket had been sorted and graded according to size. If Manan wanted small mushrooms for a stew, she could buy a whole basket full of tiny buttons. Or if she needed large mushrooms to stuff for a garniture, the giant caps were there, all together. Never a hodgepodge of all sizes and shapes in one basket or in one bunch!
Maman always went herself to the market, to select the handsomest bunch of water cress from the display of huge baskets, four feet high and as wide, packed in neat circular layers with bouquets of large-leafed cress fresh from the stream, to choose the bunch of golden, slender carrots with the most feathery green tops, or the rosiest young beets. To the French, good food is the very breath of life, and second-rate food cannot be tolerated. Despite her reputation for thrift, the French housewife supports to her last sou a magnificent food industry and takes in the business of marketing a personal interest that we in America could well emulate. I think that it is a healthy sign that American housewives tend more and more to eschew shopping for food by telephone and to find positive pleasure in going to market. After all, good cooking begins with good marketing, and I am pleased to observe that the pendulum is swinging back so that the mistress of the household, whether or not she docs the actual cooking, again makes herself responsible for the quality of the food on her table.
But to return to the market in Monmanrault. The first Wednesday of each month was the day of le grand marché, the great market. On the first Wednesday Grand-père and Uncle Jules came to town with livestock to sell, and if the weather was good. Grand-mère would ride along in the market wagon to deliver her butter, cheese, and eggs to the stall that sold them for her. On the day of to le grand marché, the customers included food merchants and restaurant men from all the neighboring cities, as well as our local people. Our school was also in the middle of town, and the bursts of Gallic temper we could hear through the windows as the men haggled over the prices of produce, poultry, and stock were stiff competition for our schoolmaster. Grand-mere usually spent the afternoon of le grand marchè with Mother, but the men, when they had completed the morning's business, repaired to the inn to talk farming and politics over good bourguignonne food and the fine Burgundy that has always been our countryside's pride.
Not all the market places in France are alike. In Vichy, which is a large town with scores of hotels and large shops that serve patrons of the health springs on the Allier River, there is no open market place, I was stationed at Vichy in 1907, during my military service, and when I visited the city again two years ago, the market had changed hardly at all. it was still housed in a huge, high-ceilinged building that looks very much like an American armory. Stalls, ranged against the walls and lined up in aisles, each as well equipped as any food shop, sell meats, poultry, dairy products, fish, breads, and pastries. I had almost forgotten how much time and thought and care are put into those displays. Sides of meat, tanks of swimming fish, dangling sausages of all kinds and sizes, white-skinned birds, exquisite pastries, crusty bread and rolls in dozens of shapes—all were displayed with infinite taste and artistry. The French food merchant is as proud of his wares as the Gutter salesman is of his, and the purchaser is accordingly appreciative and interested.
In Les Halles, the huge market in Paris, the stalls spill out of the great covered pavilion into the surrounding streets. You must go here very early in the morning. Soon after dawn, activity reaches its height. The bustle and excitement rises to a peak and the stalls arc something to see! I find it hard to believe that anyone who has ever visited Les Halles and seen the produce in its appetizing, colorful beauty could ever dislike vegetables.
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