What could be more French than an outdoor market on a sunny Sunday morning ? The air is filled with vital scents from the herbs and fruits and vegetables piled greengrocers’ creative geometrics . A whiff of Atlantic blows off the oysters on the fishmongers’ bed of ice . Wild game-hare,venison,boar-hangs from the butchers’ racks,sausages and cheeses are laid out to the savor and smell.
This ,you think ,is the very essence of French,until you read this little signs that tell you the tomatoes (which are really pretty tasteless) come from Moroccan hothouses , the grapes from South Africa,kiwis from Chile and the haricot from Kenya.You can’t even be sure where that boar bit the dust.
The congenial quaintness of the street market,in fact,draws directly on globalization.