The Peach Lady’s Daughter

When I first came to France as a new bride, I overheard snatches of Friday night conversation – “… early rising tomorrow…  seeing the Duchess…”

The next morning the old bell in the courtyard (used in emergencies such as a suspected drowning or for urgent rallying causes, like dinner) sent wake-up shards through the entire house. No pity for latecomers, they were left mercilessly behind to fight over a few stale croissants in an empty larder.

In a packed car, lurching along the sinuous road that borders the Dordogne, we were the fidele en route to the holy land – the Saturday Market at Ste Foy la Grande.

My mother in law had a finely honed routine to make the rounds of her purveyors.  She bought foie gras from a producer only after she had personally inspected her farm.  There was the favorite butcher, fishmonger, cheese man and of course, Peach Lady.  At every stand conversation was honored – obviously this was not a mere financial transaction.  The climax came with the potatoes.  There amidst gorgeous turnips, beans and lettuces, weighing her leeks and carrots, was the “duchess.”

Many years on, we are still under the spell of the Marché, still making the Saturday pilgrimage.  We’ve developed our own nomenclature for the valiant local producers who bring Aquitaine’s bounty to our tables. The “duchess” acquired the title because her visage embodies a vision of noblesse oblige:  courtesy, refinement, humility, generosity, intelligence.  Her person is also the absolute argument for her vegetables – she hasn’t aged in three decades.

Although we’ve met new faces and talents, we remain faithful to many family producers who’ve taken over from their parents.  Thirty years ago we saw them as children making change at the cash box, boxing up eggs, wrapping up a chicken or a sack of tomatoes… This kind of family continuity and direct contact with the food source is now hard to come by in a Paris market.

Our rounds today include: Fishmonger – we’ll have mussels in white wine and shallots for lunch, thanks to Genevieve’s energy, and BBQ tuna bellies for dinner tomorrow.  We wave to the Oyster Man and tell him we’ll be back in an “R” month for the fines de claire # 3 from the Ile d’Oleron.  A stop at the Duck Man for magret de canard and herb flavored duck or chicken sausages/nothing artificial added, goose rillettes and rabbit paté for lunches.

While waiting in line for the Cheese Man, we chat with the Young Knife Man who took over from his father. He travels all over the southwest searching for iron knives – you can’t put them in the dishwasher, but I swear by them for paring –  they never dull.

The dapper Cheese Man regales us with stories of forays into back country to procure only the best.  (His young grand-daughter is helping today, and in a stage whisper he decries the spoiled child syndrome and explains she’s earning her pocket money and learning a trade to boot.)

Since John adopted the “Mediterranean Diet” we’ve done away with beef products, but the astounding array and quality of goat and ewe cheese has meant we’ve never looked back with regret to brie, camembert or Pont l’Evêque.  Here we sample an Aladdin’s trove of brebis and chevre, including Roquefort, the sheep’s milk bleu that makes Henri shiver. This is one shop where the bill does gives us pause – good artisanal cheese now costs more than meat or fish. But it’s summer and we have family and friends to spoil and if ever there was a moment to splurge, this is it.

On to the Pintade Lady’s Son – we used to buy from his mother, her Christmas capons were the finest.  Today we order a pintade (guinea fowl) to roast with prunes and cognac and serve with duchess potatoes and rosemary. It’s not really the season but we’re making Julien’s favorite dinner, planned in advance for his arrival meal.

Then to the Patisson Man (today we name him for these adorable little vegetables from the olden days; they look like tiny round courgettes but have a slight flavor of artichokes.) In Autumn we call him the Mushroom Man, for his trumpets and girolles; in June when he brings his red gems, he is Monsieur Strawberry.

It’s always a special event when visiting friends join us. Somehow they wake with enthusiasm after the rude peal of the same old bell and make new discoveries – from deer and boar sausage flavored with hazelnut, espelette, fennel…

to antique lace tablecloths.

Can’t forget garlic from the lovely Garlic Lady.

And a quick stop for groseilles and cassis to dress up the melon.

Our baskets are heaving.   We turn the last corner and the urgency we felt thirty years ago rises up: will we make it to the Peach Lady before she runs out?

For years we’ve been hooked on the legendary peaches of the original Peach Lady, ruined to all others by one taste of their fine flesh.  Available only in season, they mark the high note to lunch on a drowsy summer day.

Eat them with velvet skin or not, with knives or by hand, juice dribbling down your chin or morsels tucked in with poise. (John’s father had a special knife and fork just for peaches; he for one, never dribbled.) They come to us fragrant, tender, rich, and oh so sun sweet.

Today the Peach Lady’s Daughter has stepped into her mother’s role.  Another tradition intact, for the peaches continue as exquisite as ever.  Clearly hard work, but always, as the basket changes hands, there is her smile.

One week, one season, one generation to the next.  We fill up the pantry with our local miracles, and set the table outside under the trees for lunch.  Lace tablecloth and all.