We have some excellent markets here in Languedoc. Some, it’s fair to say, are tourist favourites and as such tend to be overcrowded and overpriced. We stay away from them, especially through the summer months when there’s nowhere to park anyway. We prefer local markets where the same traders occupy the same pitches week by week.
One of our favourites is our local Sunday morning market. It isn’t in a tourist hot spot. It’s a regular, village market where the local people turn out in their Sunday best to buy fresh produce and share a natter over coffee with their neighbours. Their shopping bags are full of produce they’re going to eat today.
An orgy of artichokes with fresh, young petals ready for the dipping in something moist and creamy. Gird your loins, missus, we’ve only just begun.
Bell peppers as big as a heavyweight’s boxing glove; aubergines looking sexy and tempting in March sunshine. Can’t you just hear them calling Stuff me! I’m drooling already. Tapenades and olives expose their naughty delights on the stall next door. Mouth-watering with crusty bread from the boulangerie round the corner.
There’s only one way to eat these beauties. SUCK, darling.
And look at what’s for afters. It’s only March and here they are already. My toes are curling; my pupils are dilated. I might have to go and lie down in a dark room. . . .
I love French markets!