To Market, To Market...Parisian Style

It is Sunday morning.
On Sunday morning in Paris you might, or you might not go to Mass, depending on your personal persuasion.
However, you will, most definitely, go to the market.
And why wouldn't you?
After all, food must be put on the table, on Sunday of all days.

The French do, of course, go to the market on other days of the week, it's not just a weekend treat.
The market is central to life in most European countries.

And naturally, when in Rome...or Paris...
Needless to say, markets was pretty high on our mutual list of 'Essential Paris'
Like most people, we are addicts. We spent hours wandering around in a daze.

Although I must confess, I didn't buy much food in the market.
I know, I know - 'What an eejit!' I hear you cry. 'How could you not?'

The trouble is, I never know where to begin.
We'd have ended up loading our baskets at every stall and staggering home with enough food to feed a small country.

I mean, where do you start?
Shall we just pig out on a multitudinous variety of breads for the day?

Or seafood.

Make seafood sandwiches? 

Seafood salads? 

But then, what about the charcuterie?

Or maybe it would be simpler to buy dinner ready made, and just choose some veg to go with it?
Or salad?

Or fruit?
Perhaps we should just stick to fruit today?

After all, cherries are my absolute, absolute favourite, and at home they each have names and are necessarily sold individually.

Decisions, decisions.
Why not have a few more nibbles while we make up our minds?

I expect other people are more decisive than I am. They'd head straight for their favourite stall and wham-bam, purchase made, lunch in the bag.
I'm not good at that kind of thing.
And anyway, it's not long before I'm pretty full from too much sampling.

My excuse is that I haven't been brought up the French way.
The French head to the market, view everything slightly cynically; poke, prod and finally shrug with Gallic finesse, point to something with a 'Well, I suppose it's better than nothing' expression, and then walk off smug in the certain knowledge that they have the best possible meal tucked in their basket. 

How very civilised the French are.