The Saint Remy Markets are on a grand scale. They consume most of the small streets in the old town as well as the large market squares. Food and wine, clothing and homewares, jewellery and junk- a smorgasbord of ‘stuff’. After visiting quite a few Provence markets I noticed the same vendors and so much repetition. The clothing blew me away. Sooo much stuff!!! It’s easy to see how we each consume 27kg of fabric per year! I really didn’t come to Provence to buy Asian fabrics, Indian jewellery or African artifacts, but I can understand the French desire for such exotics. As far as cheap? Well, it really is a case of buyer beware. As with any market, the purchaser needs to know their prices. 

We are much better at lunch than dinner. Probably as sign of aging. We chose Le Café de L’Industrie. The mistral was howling, and the entrance door must have been vacuum shut! It would not relent. The maître d’ came to our rescue, and we were placed between two local couples. On the table was a rather strange contraption- obviously some sort of cheese grater. Neither of us were familiar with it nor knew its name-so to the internet…a rotary cheese grater. Ahh ha! Of course! The restaurant specialised in pasta and salads and daily regional specials. John picked it up and because it is a combination type mechanical device, the whole thing immediately fell apart much to the delight of the surrounding customers. We tried several times to put it together while the crowd watched on. Eventually it seemed to hang in there and I gingerly placed it on the plate, but when John went to touch it, ‘No!’, I cried out as the contraption fell apart and again laughter erupted. The gentleman beside us relented and took the offending machine and offered it to the staff requesting a replacement. Enough… I think it was faulty.

John is wise in his choices while I can be a little adventurous. He chose linguine with Les fameuses gambas and it was delicious. I chose something a little more exotic- the daily special -Tête de Veau, sauce Gribiche. Tete, I knew was head. Veau – veal and a sauce. What could go wrong…particularly when the women on either side of me were so impressed with my choice and assured me it was bon magnifique. I hasten to add they were both around my age and obviously very local. The waitress too acknowledged and assured me of my choice. 

The dish arrived. When I was parasailing and chose the 200m rope I realised that the key to my survival was to ‘not look down’. The key to my eating this dish was, ‘just don’t think about it’, enjoy the boiled potatoes and carrots. I scraped away at what I suspected was beef, cleverly hidden beneath a kilogram of fat. Now I don’t mind fat, but this was beyond the pail! The ‘meat’ tasted slaty and meaty. I persevered. An unrestrained image flashed into my head, and I knew I was eating the tongue and cheeks. That was it. I sopped up the broth with spoon and bread, but I had done my dash. I assured the women either side of me that it was delicious, but they may have been unconvinced considering the remnants on my plate of the half-eaten calf head! Regardless, everyone seemed happy. I had provided yet another story to illustrate a favourite anecdote of the ‘touriste stupide!!’