I refer to this street as ‘goat cheese alley’ because the goat’s cheese producer is here with his soft, creamy fresh cheeses. I don’t dare buy any now because they’re so fragile they need special handling or they’ll turn to mush, but I smile and nod to the producer, who is usually sharing a rillettes sandwich with his neighbour, the produits de luxe, or luxury products man across the way. I’ll buy cheese from him just before I leave the market to return home.
I smile at the produits de luxe man, too. He has the most exquisite smoked herring, fat, luscious fillets of salt cod, dried and peppered mackerel fillets, gorgeous smoked salmon and trout. I buy the herring and the salt cod most often – the first to serve with boiled potatoes and fresh onions, the latter to serve in dozens of different ways, though my favourite preparation is a silken, garlicky puree called brandade.
Next to him is the plant man who, each year, has the most beautiful pansies and petunias. I always buy royal blue pansies for the autumn and winter window boxes, which I like to mix with white, or white and salmon. Come spring and I plant pots with his deep purple petunias, which fill our courtyard with their vanilla aroma. Along with the fuchsia and white and mauve petunias in the window boxes, they make a riotous display of colour that lasts right into autumn.
The long farm-stall next to him is manned by a trio of young farmers who laugh and make jokes all morning long. The mother of one of them is there sometimes, too, and she is just as jovial as they. I check out their produce as I walk by, cataloguing it in my head in case they’ve got something I’ll need when I return. The market is full of quirky personalities, and across the street is one of them: a woman with an assortment of fruits and vegetables that she grows herself and that she claims are all organic. She’s got that honest, country look that can’t help but be attractive; I bought most of my vegetables from her when I first began shopping at the market years ago. But I learned to pass her by, because each time I returned home I would find something rotten, unripe or otherwise inedible in the bottom of my bag. Then I began hearing others complain about her. How she stays in business I’ll never know, but she seems to do just fine. Kitty corner from her is a snaggle-toothed man with unkempt hair who sells very few items, all of them slightly smudged and grubby. I cannot imagine anyone actually buying the smashed pats of butter he says he makes, or the boxes of nuts that are surely from several years ago, judging by their allure. He is a distant cousin of people we know, and all they can say is that he was put on this earth to be mean. Mean he may be and a cheater to boot, if what they say is true, but he certainly seems to enjoy himself at the market, and is always in conversation with one of his neighbours.
The Portuguese stand at the corner scents the air with peppers, garlic and lemon from a dozen varieties of seasoned olives. The charming proprietor and his carbon copy of a son smile shyly as they spoon them into small plastic bags, then knot them tightly with a quick flip and turn. They also sell strings of gorgeous sun-dried figs, white and yellow cornmeal, deliciously salty air-cured pork loin called luomo, candied fruits including kumquats – which I buy at Christmas – and an assortment of Portuguese wines, cheeses and spices.
Once past this stand I make a beeline for Jean-Claude and Monique Martin, the undisputed reigning family of the market. Oh, there are many other wonderful producers and much delicious produce, but none have the finesse of character and produce that Jean-Claude and Monique possess. My mouth waters as I stand there looking at their crates full of violet-flavoured mâche (lamb’s lettuce), delicate cauliflower, sweet carrots, earthy potatoes and celery root.
Jean-Claude is small and wiry with intense blue eyes that burn with humour and intelligence. Monique is small and much calmer, with a steady, direct gaze. Their daughter Myriam, with her choppy punk haircut and her slim 1950s glasses doesn’t say much, but she’s got a lively glint in her eyes, as does her older brother Xavier, who speaks with a charming lisp. They both work hard at the market stall with their parents, though each holds a full-time job during the week.
It pays to get to the Martins’ stall early, as they are extremely popular. Jean-Claude is full of mischievous comments, and when he sees someone he knows well he booms a greeting of ‘Ça va ti?’ which is the local patois for ‘How’re you doing?’ Monique gives a kiss on each cheek to customers, some of whom the couple has served for the twenty years they’ve been coming to the market in Louviers. I’ve learned over time that Monique has a quick wit. I was reminded of it most recently when I was struggling to find exact change in my purse full of euros and cents. France had changed its currency from francs to euros about two months before, in what had been an amazingly tranquil transition. There were some complaints, particularly about the size of the small denominations of coins, the kind I was trying to locate so that I could give Monique exact change. ‘Oh, I’m just like an old lady digging in my purse,’ I said, frustrated with the sameness of all the coins.
‘Suzanne,’ Monique replied with a straight face, ‘the old ladies have a lot less trouble than you.’
I first struck up a friendship with the Martins over recipes. Monique is a good country cook who loves to talk food, and I have several of her recipes in my French Farmhouse Cookbook. Jean-Claude is a good country eater who couldn’t care less about technique, but loves to eavesdrop and add his two cents worth. I’m not really sure which recipe was the first Monique shared with me – I believe it was for a salad tossed with apples sautéed in butter – but ever since then we’ve been friends. I’ve been to their home to cook with Monique and I’ve shared meals and aperitif hours with them, too, sitting at an outdoor table that overlooks their rectangular farmyard.
Monique and Jean-Claude live in the lovely old farmhouse that sits at one end of the farmyard, while Monique’s parents’ house stands at a right-angle to it, and Myriam’s house is across the patch of green lawn with its big flower pot in the centre. Beyond, completing the rectangle, are hangars filled with farm equipment, hutches for dogs and refrigerators for storing produce.
I’ve seen the Martins prosper in the ten years I’ve known them. When I first visited them at their large farm it was dusty and in desperate need of some loving attention. The big storm at the end of 1999 caught them unawares and their chimney crashed to the ground, destroying a good part of their roof with it. They used this unhappy event and the repairs it required as impetus to redo the entire façade of their farm in trompe l’oeil timbers, which brightened it up immensely.
I believe one of the reasons the Martins have prospered is because they added an extra farmers’ market to their week. For once, in a moment of seriousness, Jean-Claude took the time to explain to me the marketing of vegetables, helping me see how much more advantageous it is for them to sell directly to the consumer than to go through a middle person. The organization required to sell at several different markets is daunting, and it means that Jean-Claude often stays at the farm to harvest while Monique and their children sell. But it makes their hard work and the long hours they put in worthwhile. For the consumer like me it means that I’m getting produce that was harvested just hours before I buy it from the person who grew it. The only thing better than this would be if I grew and harvested the produce myself.
It is relationships like the one I have with the Martins that results in the intensely flavoured food I have the privilege to cook and eat. I am so thankful to farmers like the Martins and consumers like the French who demand the quality of goods they produce, for they are responsible for the network of vibrant markets throughout France. They are the country’s soul, and no one would want to live without them.
The Martins raise basic produce on fertile fields that are scattered around the area. There are some behind the farm, and some down a lane and across a bridge to a bucolic island in the River Eure. Further down another road is yet another field. The Martins are fortunate to have their fields nearby; I know farmers who travel many kilometres to work their land, which makes their days long and inefficient.
The alluvial soil of the Martins’ fields makes for sweeter-than-average carrots, crisp, tender lettuce with a delicate flavour, spicy shallots and lush, sweet spinach. They sell many other vegetables including gorgeous tall