On Rue Tatin (13 page)

Perhaps the best part of Louviers, and indeed of living in France, is the Saturday morning farmer’s market. Then, the town center turns into a rural fair, a festival of colors, aromas, and sounds as the market unfurls.

Joe and I walk through the market on our way to school, weaving through the boxes of produce stacked in the middle of the street as farmers and vendors prepare their stands. The Portuguese olive vendor gives us a shy smile while Jean-Claude and Monique Martin, my favorite farmers, wave vigorously. Others, if they notice us at all amidst the hubbub, call out a cheerful
bonjour
.

I roll my wicker basket along with me, which causes Joe to die a thousand deaths. “Mama, only old ladies have baskets like that,” he says to me under his breath as we go along. I explain to him how I must bring it because I would lose too much time if I went back home to get it, how important it is for me to get my marketing done before the crowds arrive and the lines lengthen, but he doesn’t care. “Mama, I’m so embarrassed,” he says, cringing.

He leaves me at the door to the schoolyard with a certain relief and I wheel myself back into the fray of the market, eager to assess the produce. I always go directly to the Martins, who have their crates organized before anyone else and are already doing a brisk business. Everyone in Louviers knows their produce is among the best to be had. I join the line of customers, enjoying the tableau before me as Jean-Claude jokes and flirts as he weighs out zucchini blossoms or bunches of mauve-splashed turnips, cuts into a fat pumpkin, or grabs a handful of shallots. Monique is more serious about her work, though she laughs and rolls her eyes a good part of the morning at his charmingly corny humor.

When Jean-Claude spies me his greeting is always the same. “Ah, Susanna! How is America?” Then he leans over for the traditional exchange of
bisous
, a kiss on each cheek.

The Martins’ daughter, Myriam, helps as well, and though shy and demure, she can joke right along with her parents if there aren’t too many people to serve. She hasn’t yet learned the subtle art of comedy and salesmanship, though she’s got two of the world’s best teachers to guide her along. I leave the Martins, my basket bulging with celery root, leeks, carrots so sweet and flavorful I can’t wait to grate them for salad, raw beets, which are such a rarity in France where most beets are cooked in the farmer’s field and sold ready-to-eat, and heads of
feuille de chêne
lettuce so gorgeous they look like giant reddish-brown roses.

I remain loyal to the Martins because I like them and the quality of their produce is irreproachable, but beyond that I am freewheeling, without particular allegiances. One cannot afford to become too attached to a vendor because the tableau of produce changes constantly, and while one farmer might be an artist at cultivating radishes, for instance, his curly endive might be less than perfect. I want to be free to buy what is best.

After the Martins, I head directly for the only organic produce stand in the market to inspect what they have. The produce comes from a farm owned by the state and run by indigents who are trained there for re-entry into the workforce, and though the variety is limited, it is of excellent quality. I buy what I can there, then move on. There has been a recent influx of young farmers at the market and one of them, a chubby and cheerful young man who is always shaking his impossibly corkscrew-curly hair from his eyes, cultivates Belgian endive the old-fashioned way, in the soil rather than hydroponically. The fat, ivory torpedo-shaped endives are sweet and bitter and I buy at least two pounds each week while they are in season in winter. He also has luscious potatoes with names like poetry—the amandine, the Mona Lisa, which are smooth and silky as though they had cream in them, and the vitelotte, which are knobby and purple and have the flavor of chestnuts.

There are many chicken vendors, but I always go to a young woman whose plump birds are consistently flavorful. She also has an array of dark-meated
pintades
, or guinea hens, small, succulent rabbits, and an assortment of turkey parts, all equally delicious. Farther along the street is a dynamic young woman whose specialty is
foie gras
and all its offshoots. For a real treat I buy her
magret de canard
, which have the flavor of nutty butter and the texture of a tender, toothsome steak. She advises simple cooking for
magret
. Following her advice I simply sear it over high heat, cook it just until it is rare in the center, then deglaze the pan with cider or balsamic vinegar. It is exquisitely satisfying.

After trying every egg in the market, I’ve settled on hers as the freshest, for the yolks sit right up when I break them into the pan and they have an incomparably rich flavor. The cream she brings in big buckets drips like fresh paint from her ladle as she transfers it into glass jars and I buy some each week to add to vegetables or soup, include in a pasta sauce, or stir into a dessert.

A goat cheese maker off on a side street is one of the most popular vendors at the market. He dispenses jokes and opinions along with his pure, fresh cheeses, some of which are flavored with shallots, parsley, garlic, or paprika and are at varying stages of maturity. “Hey,” he always says to me, bringing a laugh from everyone around. “When is it that you’re going to change the laws in America so I can export my cheeses?” We prefer his tender, fresh cheeses, which are perfect for spreading on fresh bread and topping with jam in the mornings.

Another butcher specializing in pork, on the corner across from the Portuguese olive vendor, dresses in a clean white smock and offers gorgeous, hand-cut pork chops, meaty, lightly smoked bacon, and pig’s heads—perfect for making head cheese and for causing small children to say
“beurk,”
which is French for “disgusting.”

A north African butcher in the center of the market offers nothing but lamb, whose small carcasses swing from the roof of his stall, which is actually the side of his truck that flips up to reveal his “shop” and work counter inside. He will cut whatever piece of lamb you want, to order.

Occasionally I am tempted by the blood sausage at
charcuterie
Guy-Guy, an impressive concern offering everything from home-dried ham to burnished chunks of smoked pork belly called
rillons
, to massive
pâtés
and jellied
pieds de porc
, or pigs’ feet. The aroma from his steaming vat of
choucroute
(sauerkraut) vies with that from farm-raised rabbits roasting on spits across the way, and I usually cave in to one or the other for a sumptuous Saturday lunch.

I stop by the cheese stand for runny Camembert and fragrant Livarot, a slab of fruity Comté or Beaufort, or a box of pine-bark-wrapped Vacherin Mont d’Or, a seductively creamy cheese from the mountains, which is only in season for a few short months in winter.

Every third week the olive and almond oil soap man comes and I stock up, and about once a month a shy farmer sets up a card table on a corner and sells fresh and flinty lentils and tender green
flageolets
. They are of such quality that I buy them each time I see them.

When I don’t have a week of heavy recipe testing before me I let my desires of the moment dictate my purchases. I often buy
nem
, Vietnamese spring rolls, from a young Asian couple or gorgeous creamy feta cheese and rich-tasting olives from the Turkish vendor in the center of the market.

“Bonjour, madame
,
”
he says shyly, extending his hand, now that I’m a regular customer along with all of the Turkish women who are swathed from head to foot, except their faces, as their religion dictates. The north African vendors offer vegetables I can’t find anywhere else such as cardoons, skinny Italian peppers, chayote squash, and prickly pears. Sprinkled throughout the market sit elderly women on their hard chairs with an array of chickens, eggs, milk, a rabbit or two, bouquets of rhubarb or Swiss chard, or flowers spread at their feet, there as much for the socializing, it seems, as for the commerce.

As spring arrives one of the corners of the market comes alive with wildflower bouquets sold by a white-haired woman who reminds me of a benevolent children’s book character. I’m certain her garden is inhabited by good fairies who make her flowers more beautiful than anyone else’s.

The
quiche
truck is a favorite stop at the market. The cheerful woman who runs it, Madeline, is Monique Martin’s cousin and the individual
quiches
her husband, Jean-Claude, bakes in the small oven at the back of the truck are tender, custardy, and delicious. They also make apple pound cake and turnovers, raisin flan, and a variety of other simple, homey pastries. We invariably stop there on the way home from school to buy a
quiche
for Joe, which Madeline makes sure is warm but not too hot so he can eat it as we thread our way through the market to home. “How is the young man doing?” she asks if he doesn’t happen to be with us, in a conspiratorial air. “Are his grades good? Does he work hard?”

The market is an anchoring aspect of life in Louviers, a true and authentic moment of give-and-take with producers. If ever I grow discouraged at the way “progress” is fanning through France bringing with it supermarkets and fast-food restaurants, vegetables wrapped in plastic, and soft, flabby chickens, I have only to go to the market to feel restored. The farmer’s market is the best of France. It is unimaginable that the country and the culture could survive without it.

Whenever we want a break from the city sounds and traffic we all get on our bicycles and race through town and out rue François Camus into the countryside. Within five minutes we’re bicycling through wheat and rape fields, past farms and gardens. I often think, as I glide along the road, how lucky we are. Michael and I have lived in Paris, Seattle, and New York, and we love the movement and hum of the city. But right now we couldn’t be happier than we are in Louviers, where everything we need is at our fingertips or, at most, an hour’s train ride away. And where, when the notion takes us, we can get on a bicycle and leave the world behind.

MARIA’S CHICKPEA SOUP
LA SOUPE AUX POIS CHICHES

Maria Fichot, who, with her husband, Philippe, is the proprietor of Le Progrès, the bustling café across the street from us, loves to cook. Whenever I bump into her or go to the café for stamps or the occasional cup of
café exprès
(espresso) we talk food, and her recipes always sound delicious. She mentioned this soup as a family favorite, and it turns out to be one we love, too, for it is simple yet richly flavored. Try a simple Côtes du Rhône with this soup.

1 pound/500g chickpeas, rinsed

1 large onion, cut in quarters

4 whole cloves

5 tablespoons/75ml extra-virgin olive oil, plus additional for garnish, optional

3 to 4 quarts/3 to 4 liters filtered water, heated just to the boiling point

1
bouquet garni

(4 dried, imported bay leaves, 3 sprigs parsley, several sprigs thyme, and 2 green leek leaves, if you have them, all tied together with kitchen string)

Fine sea salt

1 head butter lettuce

Freshly ground black pepper

1. Place the chickpeas in a large, heavy-bottomed pan and cover them by 2 inches (5cm) with water. Bring to a boil, remove from the heat, cover, and let sit for 1 hour. Drain, discarding the soaking water.

2. Reserve one quarter of the onion and pierce it with the cloves. Mince the remaining onion and place it, with 1 tablespoon of the oil, in a large, heavy-bottomed saucepan over medium heat. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the onion is translucent, about 15 minutes. Add the chickpeas and stir so they are coated with the oil, then cook them for 1 minute. Add 3 quarts (3 liters) of the water, the
bouquet garni
, and the onion quarter pierced with cloves, stir, cover, and bring to a simmer. Simmer the chickpeas for 1 hour, stirring them occasionally. Season them lightly with salt and continue cooking them until they are tender, for about another hour, adding additional water if necessary to keep them moist.

3. While the chickpeas are cooking remove the outer green leaves from the butter lettuce, leaving just the heart intact. Reserve the heart for another use, such as drizzled with vinaigrette and eaten as salad. Rinse and pat dry the outer leaves and tear them gently into large, bite-size pieces.

4. When the chickpeas are tender, remove and discard the
bouquet garni
and pass them through a food mill to remove the skins and reduce them to a rough purée. Return the purée to the saucepan and bring it to a simmer over low heat. Whisk in the remaining 4 tablespoons (60ml–1/4 cup) olive oil with salt and pepper and season to taste. Just before serving, add the lettuce leaves to the soup, stirring as they wilt, which should take a minute or two—no longer as the ribs of the leaves should still retain a crunch. Serve the soup immediately, with additional olive oil for those who wish to add it to the soup.

6
SERVINGS

BRAISED CHICKEN IN WHITE WINE
AND MUSTARD
POULET BRAISÉ AU VIN BLANC ET À LA MOUTARDE

Monsieur Richard, my butcher in Louviers, is nimble with his knife and cleaver, a joy to observe. He dispenses advice and his wife dispenses recipes.

In this recipe the chicken emerges from the oven perfectly crisp on the outside and moist inside; the mustard and wine give it a rich tang, and the onions balance with their sweetness.

The Richards make this dish at home on Sunday nights, and they assure me it is one of their family’s favorites. It has become one of ours as well, the ideal kind of dish that is quick to assemble yet emerges tasting as though hours of work went into its preparation.

Serve this with a luscious red Burgundy.

1 cup/250ml light, perfumed white wine such as a
Sauvignon Blanc

3 tablespoons/45ml Dijon mustard

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil