My French Holiday Diary- Day 11

Market day! And Roger gets the lurgy. Plus hilarious sheep.

Wednesday September 28th

Roger was the last of us to be struck down by the cold. We left him behind as we made our way to Cahors market in the morning, arriving in the rain. We were wet through after about five minutes of searching in vain for an umbrella in the neighbouring shops, so instead abandoned ourselves to the manky weather and got on with looking around.

Both Amy and Mum-y still felt pretty bad from the possibly food-poisoned melon they’d eaten at lunch the previous day and I was feeling conflicted because what’s the point in buying food if no one can eat it, so we looked around with hearts that weren’t really in it to begin with. The indoor market was just as lovely as last year though, and we bought a few specialities from a lady who made good cakes. I got a little pastis, which isn’t the alcohol but instead seems to be a layered apple tart spiked with a bit of booze, all in a tumble of flaking filo-style pastry.

We got our mojo back when we went outside and finally found some guys selling umbrellas. With our heads sheltered (well, everyone but me, who saw fit to wear a beret for the outing), we went around the rest of the market with renewed vigour. As Amy and Mum-y went to look at the interior of the fab church, Dad-y and I found ourselves alone for the first time all holiday, with a ripe twenty euro note in our hot little hands. We pulled our socks up and began to feel brave, queuing up to buy four cabecoux, little white cheeses half the size of a jam jar lid. Looking like miniature brie, we bought two goat’s cheeses and two cow’s to try the flavours. They were so cheap, between 40-60 cents depending on the milk. The cow’s cheese had a definite softer flavour than the goat’s and was more gooey, but the goat version had such a delicate flavour and was so fluffy and soft inside that I was really surprised by it. It’s strange how cow’s milk is made into so many different kinds of cheese but back at home you can only buy two kinds of goat’s cheese- hard with rind, or soft like cream cheese. Both tend to have a vomit tang to them, but not the cabecou. Very delicate, very good.

Dad-y and I continued our little jaunt by going on a fig hunt, finding absolute gems at a woman’s fruit stall. Tiny green- and purple-blushed figs smaller than the size of a walnut filled a wooden box on the stall. At only about four euros a kilo, we ended up paying less than two quid for a huge bag of amazingly sweet, honey-like beauties. Bite into one and they oozed with a golden nectar. I haven’t eaten any fig that good, or that beautiful.

Pleased with our stash, Dad-y and I soon found Amy and Mum-y again and we bought four macaroons from a young man under a huge umbrella. Vanilla, pistachio, coffee and blackcurrant. Double the size of a ladurée and twice as chunky, they were deliciously moist and delicately fragranced. I selfishly snaffled my vanilla in the car without offering anyone a taste.

Because I was so beautiful –har har- a man who made charcuterie sausages gave me two for the price of one. After taking a sneaky picture of an unfortunate poodle wearing what looked like a red leather jump suit, we moved on next to a covered vegetable stall. I stocked up on more plump and pale endives and a bag of onions, then Amy and I couldn’t resist buying half a dozen little purple artichokes.

After a dash back to the car with our wares, we got caught in a bizarre traffic jam of lost sheep, who blocked the road for at least half a mile, dashing about in front of us whenever we revved the car. Though the sight of their dirty tails flapping as they ran in front of us en masse was hilarious and mad, after half an hour we began to feel hungry and desperate to get back to Marcilhac. Finally, on a corner, the sheep moved aside for us, with the help of a cyclist who we left them with, looking very confused.

After a hot pasta lunch to warm us up from the rain and a relax, we tucked into the veal stew for dinner. It was delicious. I know I keep saying everything is delicious on this holiday –obviously I need a better word to express myself- but almost everything we’ve eaten out here has been delicious. Like, really the best food you could ever hope to eat. When you think of French country cooking, it’s the quality of the ingredients and the simplicity of everything that hits you. I’m not saying that the stew I made was fancy, or the gratins either; I’m not even attempting to boast because I never feel that I can be responsible for the flavour of food when it’s the quality that sets it apart, not the way it’s been cooked. The stew was simply amazing, the flavours all came together, so rich and subtle; the onions, the carrots, the herbs, the salty bacon piece shredded up at the bottom of the pan… The tomatoes and the white wine went so well with the veal I had to come back at bedtime and slurp a great spoonful in secret. That’s why France is great. If you don’t like food, I honestly can’t see the point of coming here. It’s beautiful in this region but the meals we’ve shared together have been so much more special than anything else.