This concept has really been brought home to me again since I arrived in Toulouse just over a month ago. Although I’ve visited this city a couple of times before, and know a handful of people here, I’m still a stranger, and have to spend long hours alone slaving over a hot keyboard, in order to get my work done, although I’m not complaining as that’s the reason I came here in the first place. Very different from my busy life in Melbourne, where I often long for enough solitude to get my research and writing done, my lifestyle in France gives me a little glimpse into what it must be like for people who are socially isolated or have few friends—no matter what country they live in.

In France, however, there are numerous markets, and I always make this one of the centres of my life, shopping each day for the few things I need, deciding what to cook based on what looks good and affordable that day.

In Toulouse the historic Marche des Carmes is a few steps down the road from where I am staying. Apart from the comforting sights and smells of markets, they are also wonderful places for social interaction.  And in France, the most important place in the market is arguably the cheese stall.  On my first day there, faced with the bewildering array of French cheeses, I asked the fromager for some recommendations, and he gave me tastings and also advice about the different cheeses. He focuses on a different two or three types each time I go there, and I’ve come to refer to these sessions as my ‘cheese tutorials’.  I excused my ignorance of French cheeses to him by explaining that I was Australian. In turn, he told me how he learned about Australia in the English courses he took at university, and also how his business was originally owned by his great-grandparents.

On one occasion during my ‘tutorials’, when he was giving me two morsels to taste and compare—one of one-year old Comte, and the other aged for two years, I noticed in my peripheral vision that the queue  behind me was quickly lengthening. I turned apologetically to the woman next to me, although my mouth was too full of cheese to do much apologising, but she was smiling and nodding — probably in approval that a foreigner was interested enough in her culture to learn about this important part of it.

As for the Comte, I prefer the older of the two, and when I bought more of it this morning, I was informed that this particular one was aged ’26 months’!  To complement it I bought a creamy mild cheese, and a blue d’Auvergne, as this gives a good contrast of cheeses to follow after the main course and before the dessert. But I’m not going to give you any more details than that. You’ll just have to ask your fromager yourself.

Maybe such places do make a country more ‘capitalist’ which presumably means more profit-oriented. But profit for whom? For the owners or bosses on their obscenely high salaries, and probably also for those gamblers we call ‘shareholders’.

But the sort of capital I am more interested in is ‘social capital’, a concept well known to those such as sociologists and social workers who care more about the quality of the lives of individuals, rather than the quantities of material gain, or profits. Social capital refers to our daily interactions, our conversations, our recognition of each other, if not by name, certainly by face. This starts to happen quite frequently, at least it seems to here in Paris, after only a couple of weeks of buying my daily necessities at the cheese shop, the coffee supplier, the boulangerie, and even in my local restaurant (the wonderful Le Square Trousseau from Paris je t’aime fame), all in my immediate neighbourhood.

Of course, these petits commercants also have to make a profit—their own livelihood depends upon it. But there is something very satisfying, that goes way beyond concepts of profit and loss, about buying my still-warm morning baguette from the people who have been up since before dawn to bake it. Or my coffee from the man who buys the raw beans wholesale and then roasts them in his shop in the rue d’Aligre, only grinding them when I have chosen the particular variety that I like.

The couple who run my favourite vegetable stall in the daily Marche d’Aligre know me as l’Australienne, and the wife likes to practise her English with me, while her husband corrects my French.

Even in my local Franprix supermarket (where I know several of the cashiers by sight, if not by name), a quick chat can start up in the (very frequent) queues. This evening, the woman in the queue behind me said (in French of course), ‘Oh your hair looks so nice and shiny!’ I thanked her for the compliment and explained that I’d just coloured it, as one of my daughters-in-law had brought from England a couple of packets of the type I like, but of which I couldn’t remember the brand. We then moved on to discussing our children’s ages (almost the same!), whether we had grandchildren or not (she does, I don’t), until the queue finally moved, and we bid each other a bonne soirée.

Superstores probably exist on the outskirts of French cities like they do in many other countries, but for people who have a choice about whether or not to use them, I think we need to stop and reflect on what sort of society we want to be part of.  As anyone who reads Wikipedia could tell us, our word society comes from the Latin word societas and before that socius, meaning comrade, friend or ally, and signifying interaction among individuals who are friendly towards one another, who give each other mutual assistance.

There are many things I love about living in the 21^st century, but uber-capitalism at the expense of social capital is not one of them.

In my usual misanthropic way, I turned to my friends and said, ‘This would never happen in France. The waiters would ask them to be quiet. Actually, that wouldn’t even be necessary, as no French person would ever dream of carrying on like this.’

My friends didn’t refute this, as they don’t know France, but I could see in their eyes the look I often receive in response to my stated enthusiasm for France:  ‘Oh here she goes again–myopically extolling the virtues of everything French.’

So I was rather joyfully vindicated when one of my friends rang the next day (she of the particularly sceptical look, actually), drawing my attention to an article in the Melbourne Age newspaper, which said almost the very same thing I’d said the night before.

Incidentally, the photo above was taken at the incomparable and historic Le Bouillon Chartier, in Paris, an enormous restaurant, but where you can have a civilised conversation without ever needing to raise your voice. The men at the next table clowning around in the background of the photo did it so quietly that we didn’t even know they had done this until we viewed the photograph later! The restaurant itself, founded in 1896 deserves its own entry, which I will do when I’m in Paris again in a few weeks time, necessitating a revisit for research purposes.

The night before this was taken, the crowd spilled out into the street from La Grille, as the French football team played its first match on the opening day of the World Cup. The French fans didn’t seem too downcast by the drawn result with Uruguay, but of course at that time they didn’t know what was in store for them. Later in the tournament, drinkers at La Grille were much more subdued – quietly angry, perhaps – as they watched the large TV in the bar.

La Place d’Aligre is in what used to be a working class district of Paris, a kilometre or so east of the Bastille, and although it is now quite trendy it still has some rough edges. These can be seen in the market space every day except Monday, when a lot of stalls selling mainly used clothing, books and bric-a-brac open up, the stock having been kept overnight locked in the numerous graffiti-covered vans that seem permanently parked around the perimeter of this circular Place. Numerous homeless men and boisterous alcoholics also emerge from who knows where, but seem to disappear again when the market closes at about 1300 hrs. For some reason undiscoverable to me, they liked to congregate below the overhang of the large apartment block in which I was staying. At the back against the red-roofed building and in Rue d’Aligre itself, a large fruit and vegetable market attracts buyers from a wide area. The large, squat building with the red roof is the site of the covered marché Beauvau-Saint Antoine, which is a bit more expensive but contains some excellent charcuteries and cheese shops.

On the horizon, of course, is the Eiffel Tower, and closer the parish church of Saint-Antoine des Quinze-Vingts, against the sunset and the stormy clouds.

The entrée was mache leaves, piled with celeri remoulade and carrot rappée, (both from Franprix), topped with toasted pine nuts and lightly cooked sliced mushrooms (that’s it, above).

Since my landlady has requested the recipe of the main plat, I have to write it in French. If anyone wants it in English, you’ll have to write and ask for it!

(Picture below)

600g de filets de saumon

La moitié d’un pot de sauce Napolitana (j’ai utilisé la marque Barilla, achetée à Franprix ; je peux la trouver à Melbourne aussi), avec la même quantité d’eau ajoutée et mele.

Douze petites tomates.

Coupez les filets en assez gros morceaux et mettez-les dans une cocotte pour le four. Couvrez avec la sauce, et mettez aussi les petites tomates dessus.

Mettez la cocotte dans le four (chauffé à180 degrés), et faites cuire pendants 15 minutes. Servez avec du riz.

Bon appetit!

During my seven-month stay in France a couple of years ago, a colleague explained to me the thrifty French tradition (well, from her region and era, at any rate) of gathering up all the leftover food (les restes) on Fridays and making it into a pie (la tarte). Of course, it’s necessary to combine ingredients judiciously. I looked around for a book of recipes at the time, so I could have some instruction on making these pies, but I couldn’t find anything. Then one day on a television cooking show, I saw a woman named Sophie Dudemaine demonstrating how to make tartes from all manner of things–fish, leftover meat, andouille (I’ll pass on that one), lentils, escargots… you name it. So I went into Amazon France and, sure enough, Sophie has a whole range of books, one of which is Les Tartes et Salades de Sophie, which I ordered toute suite.

So although today is Friday, I didn’t make a tarte a la Sophie, but I did apply the principle of using up les restes. In my case, after all this horrible hot humid weather in Melbourne, les restes were some very sad looking peaches, a wrinkled nectarine or two, and a couple of dozen cherries which had seen better days. I flung them all into a saucepan with some leftover red wine, and various spices–cloves, cinammon stick, mixed spice, and a little strawberry cordial and some water–and boiled it all up for about half an hour (adding the nectarine and cherries about half way through).

This is actually a variation on a famous Melbourne dish known as peach Melba, which requires raspberries to be added at the end (some people puree the raspberries, but I prefer them whole). As it’s not raspberry season, I flung in a handful of the frozen variety once I’d taken the saucepan off the heat. The verdict? Eaten warm with ice-cream or plain yoghurt, it can only be described as magnifique!

 I’ve recently taken up dressmaking after a long break from it. After spending so many years in academia, living inside my head (as my physiotherapist tactfully puts it!), I find that I often ache to be doing something with my hands, and sewing is just the thing.

Choosing dressmaking fabric is a wonderfully sensual experience, and especially at the Marché St Pierre. It’s a cornucopia of colours, patterns and textures. I like to let the various pieces of fabric that attract my eye suggest to me what they ought to be made into.

A couple of today’s suggestions were: a fitted pinafore dress in a small check of red and black fine wool (at 3 Euros per metre!), for when I return shortly to the Melbourne winter; a French version of a liberty print in grey, blue and muted red cotton twill is just asking to be made into a long-sleeved crossover dress; two pure cottons, one beige and one white, each embroidered with lacy patterns in the same colour, will make cool summer dresses (I couldn’t get summer out of my head, thanks to the searing heat here in Paris at the moment).

 My favourite fabric shop was Tissus Reine for variety and sheer sumptuousness (the French liberty print came from there), but I found my best bargains at Les Coupons de Saint-Pierre, and some of the smaller shops. Some specialise in curtains and upholstery fabrics, while others have all types. Today I was only interested in the tissus habillements (dressmaking fabrics).

 On the hill above, the white domes of Sacré Coeur shimmered in the hot air, while inside the fabric shop the voice of Serge Gainsbourg played in the background. For a brief time, I thought I was in heaven.

I’ve never discovered at what hour the day begins for the stallholders of the Place d’Aligre market. But if I awake at seven to stagger to the bathroom on my sleep-stiffened legs I can hear small sounds of almost-muted activity from the place (or square, but in reality a large semi-circle) in front of my apartment many floors below. Even though I can return to bed for another hour’s sleep, I cannot resist going into my salon to peek from the floor-to-ceiling window that looks over the place; and then I can just make out, by the light of the dozen or so lanterns that light the square, that the stalls are indeed already lined up in neat rows under their blue-and-white striped awnings in the gloomy dawn of this Paris winter.

The stallholders start packing up any time after about one o’clock in the afternoon. The hour differs each day but I haven’t managed to work out the pattern, although Saturday seems to be the earliest pack-up day. They leave wooden fruit crates and bags of leftovers around the square in about eight piles of varying neatness. As the last vans are departing, the gleaners move in. On a cold, wet day there will only be two or three at most, as there are today. They pick through the piles, even opening some of the black plastic bags. Today there are two women filling small plastic bags in this way. At another pile, obviously left behind by a clothing vendor, a man is trying on a waterproof jacket. He inspects it carefully first, then removes his own jacket, and his vest. Then he puts on the ‘new’ jacket. He does it up, flexes his shoulders to check the size. Satisfied, he leaves it on, folding up his previous garments neatly and putting them into a plastic bag.

The ubiquity of markets is one of my favourite things about Paris. I never tire of buying my fresh produce this way. It’s a supremely soothing experience. Perhaps because markets are one of the few things still existing in which humans have participated since time immemorial. Better than any ‘social networking’ on the computer, the touch and smell of all that lovely organic matter, the banter of the marchands and occasional offers of ‘buvons un café ensemble?’ (always politely declined), the experience never fails to cheer me up.

Today strawberries are on special. I buy half a kilo and decide to make compote to go with my Saturday baguette.

Compote aux Fraises à Carolyne

500g strawberries (can be ‘cooking’ quality), hulled, washed and halved

A little wine or sherry

Sugar to taste

Cinnamon

Juice of one lemon (optional)

4 teaspoons of gelatine

Throw everything except the gelatine and sugar into a heavy bottomed pan and simmer gently until the strawberries are as cooked as you want them to be (I don’t cook them for very long). Add just the amount of sugar to make it sweet enough. When the strawberries are cooked to your liking (I prefer them to be still whole, and not too mushy), take saucepan off the heat, and spoon out about a third of a cup of the syrup. Add the teaspoons of gelatine to this hot liquid, and whisk to dissolve it thoroughly. Stir this mixture back into the stawberries and mix gently but thoroughly. Pour into jars or containers and keep in fridge. This does not keep for long (scarecely a week, even in the fridge) so I pour it into containers of a size that will last me for a few days, and freeze all but one (the amount in this recipe makes only about two medium-sized jars—enough for two people for a few days, depending on how thickly you ladle it onto your baguette).