Two years ago I stumbled into the bio market on some damn street or other. I couldn’t tell you where it was but I could find it. If I had my iPhone and a Paris map app. Anyway, it’s the glorious-in-every-way organic food market on Sundays. They make and sell these incredible potato galettes. Hot off the grill. Dripping in butter. Usually I don’t like walking around eating. But I’d happily eat these while prancing around outside. Particularly if it were Paris I was prancing around in.
Bio means organic. The Bio Marché is the organic Sunday produce market. It is glorious. I don’t know what that first picture is, but the woman who was buying it called it wild asparagus (in French so I could be really mistaken about that). It doesn’t look too wild to me. This is the same market where 2 years ago I was publicly shamed for touching a loaf of bread and cutting into the front of the line. Fortunately no one seemed to remember me.
Can anyone tell me why we do not sell peonies as a cut flower in the US? They are so beautiful, they smell fabulous and they last forever.