I love a good French market. For the congenitally curious like me, it’s paradise on earth. Here’s a cautionary tale, however, on how not to shop in a French market.
Have you ever done something so awful that you break into a cold sweat every time you think about it? I’m not talking about a really heinous crime. Just one of those excruciatingly embarrassing moments when you wish the ground would open up.
If that was you, standing outside the makeshift changing room at last Friday’s outdoor market, I can only apologise, profusely.
Setting the scene
It was one of those glorious spring days. The sun was shining, birds chirruping away, blue sky and Simpsons clouds, you get the picture. The perfect day for a trip to the colourful, assault on the senses, outdoor market in Evian.
Mr B rolls out the car and off we charge down the mountain like a ball bearing in a pinball machine. Since arriving here over a year ago, Mr B has become more ‘confident’, his word, driving down these twisty little mountain roads. Reckless would be a more accurate description. Wild animals in the surrounding woods tremble at the sound of our garage door opening.
Market Days
Our little market in Evian takes place twice a week, on Tuesday and Friday mornings. The Tuesday market is a fairly restrained affair but on Fridays, it’s the full potato. Everything you want a market to be. A riot of colourful handbags, handwoven baskets, and enough sunhats to build a raft with. Flimsy dresses swing on hangers beneath the canopies, like the spinnakers of yachts on the nearby lake.
Bargains Galore
As I weave from stand to stand, Mr B saunters behind, examining the ‘designer’ watches as if he were an expert on the Antiques Roadshow. I peruse the bowls of fat, succulent olives and buy aubergines the size of rugby balls, they must be a bargain, mustn’t they?
I’m talked into a kilo of roast potatoes along with my roast chicken by the good-looking young man on the chicken stand. Well, he did wink at me as he put the chicken in its seep-proof bag. Neither of us eats potatoes. Each time I come home with 2 slices of ham so thick you could cobble a street with them.
Every week we have the same conversation, ‘No, we’re not adopting a beehive for the balcony from the woman at the honey stall’, but I’m working on that.
What embarrassing incident?
Anyway, I’ve been trying to deflect you from asking ‘what embarrassing incident?’ Here’s a little lesson on how not to shop in a French market.
It all began when I spotted a bargain hanging on the rail of the slightly dodgy dresses and blingy trousers stall. Fed up with the countryside uniform of t-shirt and jeans I thought I might jazz up my wardrobe a bit.
The Big Squeeze or How Not to Shop
‘You’re not buying that without trying it on, are you?’ Said the voice of reason over my shoulder. ‘Yes, yes, this way Madame, I have a changing room here for you’, steering me through the jungle of coat hangers, over 3 empty cardboard boxes, and behind 2 very flimsy floral curtains.
Somewhat reluctant to strip down to my undies in the middle of the outdoor market, I rashly decided to slip the dress on over the jeans and t-shirt. Top plan! What could possibly go wrong? Five minutes of deep inhaling, lots of shimmying, and I get it on. It looks like a burst sausage skin, and so off it comes……. well, no, in fact, it’s jammed tight at around shoulder height. By this time, I’ve got my arms over my head like a drowning man, and somehow the whole thing has twisted around and I’m breathing through the zip hole.
Subtle alterations
‘Mais dis donc……qu’est qu’elle fait la’ ? comes the murmur from the small crowd gathering outside the curtain. ‘Ca va?’ enquires the increasingly impatient stall owner, at which point I break into a cold sweat convinced I’m going to pass out at any moment. Nothing else for it, I’m going to have to open the curtain and ask him to cut me out of this straight jacket.
Then suddenly I remember reading about Harry Houdini. His trick to escape from a padlocked trunk while bound in chains was to breathe out deeply and simultaneously relax all of your muscles. At this point, I’ll try anything. Miraculously it worked, and centimetre by centimetre I worked the dress off, accompanied by the sound of groaning stitches and creaking seams.
Trophy time
I emerged from behind the curtain like Eric Morecombe on Sunday Night at the London Palladium. Before the stallholder had time to admire the minor alterations I’d so carefully made, I stuffed the dress in my bag. With a big broad smile I beamed, ‘why yes, it’s just perfect.’
20 euros later and I’m now the proud owner of an eye-catching pink and orange floral dress with strategically placed air vents.
The moral of this story is, don’t be tempted to buy your clothes in the outdoor market…..oh, hang on…..what’s this…
