Rest Day

It was meant to be a day of rest after the trip to the market, but the oyster episode kept me on my toes for the rest of the day. I consumed an entire box of mints.

At the entrance to the market was a man asking for money. I said, “No français,” to sidestep the awkwardness of refusing him. He switched to impeccable English and asked, “Have you got three or four euros?” I quietly slipped the 50-cent coin I’d intended to give him back into my pocket.

The market itself was overflowing with local produce. My brother-in-law bought generous quantities of vegetables I consider exotic: celery, celeriac, fennel, beetroot, artichokes. I say exotic because I never buy them back in England—I simply don’t know what to do with them. He, on the other hand, has an intimate knowledge of how to transform them into salads and simple dishes.

Herbs like dill, basil, parsley, and others found their rightful place in both salads and lightly cooked vegetables. Beetroot, which usually tastes of mud to me, was miraculously transformed: he boiled it, dressed it with olive oil, vinegar and lemon, and served it with boiled eggs. The result was a delectable salad.

I won’t dwell on the three quails I saw going into the oven—I made a hasty retreat to the rear garden under the pretext of writing this bulletin.

A brisk walk in the local park completed the day. There is a certain charm to these parks, which I can only attribute to the refined aesthetic sense of the French. The topiaries were especially imaginative, some even illustrating little fables displayed nearby.

Excellent wine and good food served in the garden, accompanied by bird calls and the soft sound of a water feature, brought the evening to a perfect close.