Exceptional Chapter 6. Choosing picnic supplies The French Letter : Rue Poncelet Market by tfawcus

The Rue Poncelet market is alive with the sights and smells of boulangeries, pâtisseries, fromageries, charcuteries, and a divinity of other curiosities for the food lover. I intended it to be the centrepiece of my upcoming article, and was eager to show it off to Helen. I glanced at my watch. Almost midday. I realised we wouldn’t have a great deal of time before the stalls and shops closed for their two hour lunch break. What a civilised city Paris is, I thought. Paced for the enjoyment of life’s finer pleasures. None of this twenty-four seven nonsense. Paradoxically, the next words I uttered were, “We’ll have to hurry.”  Helen was already revving the engine before I had finished squeezing my lanky body into her tiny Fiat. I had scarcely buckled my seatbelt when she pulled out and skidded round the first corner. The squeal of tortured rubber made me instantly regret my words. Weaving in and out of the traffic with all the dexterity of a sweatshop seamstress, she showed herself to be more than a match for any Paris taxi driver.  "Where on earth did you learn to drive like that? You’re absolutely insane, you know.”  “I lived in Thailand for a while. You had to be aggressive and competitive to get anywhere. Only the fittest survived." “You’re not in Thailand now,” I reminded her, “and survival appeals to me.” “Well, you did say we were in a hurry.” She gave a wicked little smile. “Fun, wasn’t it?” Before I could think of a suitable answer, she had hopped out of her seat and was waiting impatiently for me on the pavement. “Let’s go!” she said, dragging me by the elbow into the nearest boulangerie. “A baguette is the basis of any good French picnic.” “We should pay a visit to Alléosse,” I said. “It’s one of the best fromageries in Paris and just around the corner.” After some discussion with the cheesemonger, we chose a soft goat’s milk cheese with an earthy flavour. Many people here knew me, and I sensed I was beginning to go up in Helen’s estimation as we moved from stall to stall making our purchases. “That should be enough,” I said at last. “Now it’s up to you. Where should we picnic? I bow to the expert.” “Easy! The parklands surrounding Chateau Saint-Cloud are only twenty minutes away, and halfway to Versailles. We might even have time to visit Marie Antoinette’s rose garden.” “That sounds perfect. I’m starving.” “Then you must eat cake!” she laughed, parodying Marie Antoinette’s famous saying as we entered La Pâtisserie des Rêves. “Ahh!” I sighed. “The Pastry Shop of Dreams!”  “Bonjour, Monsieur Brandon!” Smiles wreathed the proprietor’s face. “What can I do for you today?” Helen pointed to a tray of chocolate eclairs. “They look scrumptious!” “My favourite, too, mademoiselle. Freshly made this morning.” “…and if we’re going to picnic in the shadow of Marie Antoinette, we really should have cake. What’s that one?” She pointed to a small rectangular block. “They are a real treat,” I said. “Light and moist. The French call them Financiers, because they look like gold ingots. These are Alphonse’s speciality. They have a delicious chestnut flavour.” “They sound decadent.” “Mais oui! Fit for a queen. Definitely the right choice for you, mademoiselle!” While the cakes were being boxed, I whispered in her ear, “I hope he’s not suggesting that you, too, deserve to be guillotined.” “Not me, Charles. I have been too close to the edge of starvation for that.” “Really? You must tell me about it sometime.” “Maybe sometime …but today’s too nice a day to spoil.” Recognized

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