“You will see what even Parisians never get to see,” Genevieve said as we lurched and swerved our way through early morning traffic. Glad that she, not me, was driving, I hoped that there would be coffee at our destination. We had left our apartment at 6:15 to rendez-vous with G. “How is it that you get to go in?” I asked. “Je suis membre d’un societé,” she said rather mysteriously. “It must be the Society of the Legion of Honour,” I murmered to Alan. “Actually,” she said, having heard, “both my grandfathers, my father, and my ex-husband had the Legion of Honour”. I have told readers before that G. is crème de la crème. “Then you are a Legionnaire by proximity,” I said. She chuckled.
About 15 minutes beyond the outskirts of Paris, we arrived. “It has its own airport,” G. said. “Shipments come in from all over the world.”
“And from here to the rest of France?” I asked.
“To the rest of Europe.”
We are standing on a superb, sunny and warm day in a rather bleak, unending parking lot. Silly me. I had thought that Rungis, the Marché Central of Paris, would be like the cheery, tented street markets that dot the city, only bigger.
Rungis is the successor as the “stomach of Paris” to the far grittier and picturesque Les Halles. That the earlier market existed for centuries but a stone’s throw from the Louvre is another indicator of the centrality of food for the Parisian. You may have read those wonderful Paris memoirs in which Hemingway and friends cavort until dawn and then end their white night with a bowl of bouillabaise at Les Halles. It also is the scene of many a crime novel. Today the area is under renovation but the streets surrounding the former market site are amongst our least favorite, proving that even Paris has its tacky neighbourhoods.
“Hurry,” Genevieve said. “we must get to the flower hall. It’s the first to shut down.” We step into a building that would dwarf an airline hangar and enter…. heaven.
Men with trolleys are running around frantically, as the French do when they’re working, and each trolley is packed precipitously with mountains of gorgeous, absolutely freshly-cut flowers.
Colour and scent everywhere.
On to the greenhouses. We drove. Everything is big and far in this market. From a plant point of view, and as a botanical garden, Paris’ Jardin des Plantes is a bit disappointing. But who needs one when you have these massive, incredible greenhouses? Suivez-moi.
Okay, I know that so far there has been precious little about food. Don’t worry. We did get to food. A classic Parisian hostess, G. begins most of her soirées with a glass of champagne (yes, real) and foie gras which she always prepares herself. She gets the foie gras at Rungis, by the box. Driving over to her provider, she seemed piqued that I was not getting any. How to explain? It’s a bit of an animal cruelty objection and a bit of a high fat issue. Eating a bite of foie gras is delicious, but on the third or fourth bite I feel as though I’m eating a pound of butter. I said something lame about it’s not the way I cook. No problem, though. At this provider (“He supplies all the 3 star chefs”, G. said), I found delicious smoked salmon, a large bag of escargots in butter and garlic, a pot of fig jam, hazelnut oil, argan oil – for my skin and hair – and duck confit. In the adjacent vendor, I bought cheeses and sweet butter (see, I have nothing against fat, in modest amounts – au contraire).
There were also entire chateaubriands and filet mignons as big as eels. There were boxes of poultry, including pigeons as you see on the right. I was very tempted by the pigeons, as I just love them, but even on Weird Food Wednesday I would not have the heart to cut off that sweet little head. There were suckling pigs, too, but enough said about that.
Our expedition was not finished, but the battery in my camera was, so you’ll just have to imagine the massive florist supply store we went into where G. enthusiastically darted about getting little bibs and bobs for her grandchildren for Easter. We ended at a wine and gourmet item warehouse (chocolates, sauces, sun-dried tomatoes and the like). We were invited to taste champagne. Well, it would have been rude not to. G., as the driver, took only a tiny sip, but the gentlemen serving were pouring out tumbler-fulls for Alan. I guess that noon is late in the day at Rungis and they didn’t want to waste it.
Back in the car, on our way to Paris, G. asked,”Does this interest you, going to Rungis?” This is French for, “Did you like it?”
“Yes,” I said. “It fills me up. It’s like Paris itself, so packed with possibility, so expressive of a particular viewpoint on life, where everything produced is the best one can get, is just what one really enjoys, is there and will always be there and promises so many future pleasures that….” I trailed off, feeling confused. Perhaps it was the champagne leaving me feeling foolish and tongue-tied. Genevieve just smiled and shrugged.