Four years I have been waiting for the night markets of the Haute Vienne. A friend of mind, a sassy British lady called Maggie, took me to my first night market once upon a time, promptly turning me from a delicate vegetarian into a genuinely carnivorous young thing.
Arriving at Dechen Choling Tuesday evening, Maggie immediately whisked me off to her house for a drink and the sunset. She lives in a beautiful house down the road in Ste Marie de Vaux, which I covet and adore. I am a committed gypsy at the moment, but if I had the means I would buy her house and settle down and live here forever. As we pulled into the drive, Maggie noticed that one of the chickens of her neighbor Marcel had jumped the fence into his potager. Within minutes, as Maggie predicted, Marcel appeared, furious, and began chasing the chicken with a big stick. She told me that Marcel always punishes the chickens who behave badly - last spring, apparently, he hung a stone around a naughty hen's neck for weeks. Vive la France!
Over a cold beer Maggie announced the Thursday night market, the mere existence of which makes me the Francophile that I am. These markets move around each week from town hall to town hall in perhaps a 20km radius, and all of the locals come out to eat. Only local vendors are allowed, and the requirement is that each vendor must grow or make everything from their own animals or garden. There are about fifteen vendors - the cheesemakers, with fresh chevre and gouda; the sausage makers - duck, pork, who knows what else; the butchers with their lamb brochettes, fowl, the famous Limousin beef; the tarte lady with blackberry clafoutis and tartin d'abricot; the bread bakers, the local vintners, etc. One buys their meat and takes it to David the Dutch grill master, who grabs it in his hand and throws it on the grill as you watch and tell him how you like it cooked. Then he tells you how it ought to be cooked, and does it his way.
This all takes place in the parking lot of the town hall. Rows of tables are set up, and everyone brings a few bottles of wine, salads, vegetables from the garden, little place settings ... and everyone sits together at shared tables and talks to the people next to them, passing wine and salad and making you taste their summer tomatoes or fois gras or gallette du pepin. It is the most delightfully civilized event on earth. That Thursday I purposefully ate very little for lunch in order to bring a good appetite with me. Ah bon.
As Maggie and I arrived, we noticed a few friends that I hadn't seen in years, the perfect reunion. A few other staff members from Dechen Choling were also there, scattered about, and as I walked around to greet people I ate a little from every table. Then off for a round of the vendors to choose dinner - lamb brochettes, sausage from the neighbors, a bottle of white, a little French gouda. Maggie's friend Laurent, who works for the Limoges newspaper Le Populaire, stopped by and remembered me right away. I think he gets a kick out of my French accent - he calls it "charmante". Two days later, an article appeared in the paper about the night markets, and there was a big photo of Maggie and I accompanying it, which Marcel must have taken in secret. Ha!
Arriving at Dechen Choling Tuesday evening, Maggie immediately whisked me off to her house for a drink and the sunset. She lives in a beautiful house down the road in Ste Marie de Vaux, which I covet and adore. I am a committed gypsy at the moment, but if I had the means I would buy her house and settle down and live here forever. As we pulled into the drive, Maggie noticed that one of the chickens of her neighbor Marcel had jumped the fence into his potager. Within minutes, as Maggie predicted, Marcel appeared, furious, and began chasing the chicken with a big stick. She told me that Marcel always punishes the chickens who behave badly - last spring, apparently, he hung a stone around a naughty hen's neck for weeks. Vive la France!
Over a cold beer Maggie announced the Thursday night market, the mere existence of which makes me the Francophile that I am. These markets move around each week from town hall to town hall in perhaps a 20km radius, and all of the locals come out to eat. Only local vendors are allowed, and the requirement is that each vendor must grow or make everything from their own animals or garden. There are about fifteen vendors - the cheesemakers, with fresh chevre and gouda; the sausage makers - duck, pork, who knows what else; the butchers with their lamb brochettes, fowl, the famous Limousin beef; the tarte lady with blackberry clafoutis and tartin d'abricot; the bread bakers, the local vintners, etc. One buys their meat and takes it to David the Dutch grill master, who grabs it in his hand and throws it on the grill as you watch and tell him how you like it cooked. Then he tells you how it ought to be cooked, and does it his way.
This all takes place in the parking lot of the town hall. Rows of tables are set up, and everyone brings a few bottles of wine, salads, vegetables from the garden, little place settings ... and everyone sits together at shared tables and talks to the people next to them, passing wine and salad and making you taste their summer tomatoes or fois gras or gallette du pepin. It is the most delightfully civilized event on earth. That Thursday I purposefully ate very little for lunch in order to bring a good appetite with me. Ah bon.
As Maggie and I arrived, we noticed a few friends that I hadn't seen in years, the perfect reunion. A few other staff members from Dechen Choling were also there, scattered about, and as I walked around to greet people I ate a little from every table. Then off for a round of the vendors to choose dinner - lamb brochettes, sausage from the neighbors, a bottle of white, a little French gouda. Maggie's friend Laurent, who works for the Limoges newspaper Le Populaire, stopped by and remembered me right away. I think he gets a kick out of my French accent - he calls it "charmante". Two days later, an article appeared in the paper about the night markets, and there was a big photo of Maggie and I accompanying it, which Marcel must have taken in secret. Ha!
