I never bother buying tomatoes from a supermarket or anywhere until I ferret out real ones in the summer normally from a farm.
At the marché a man had a variety and tomato smell fills the air.
I pick one up to inhale the aroma and experience olfactory visions of a tomato sandwich or tomato with some of Joel’s olive oil and bit of my basil from the patio. The bread had cooled from the bakery.
He takes another and cuts it in half. “Caviar de tomato,” he says and gives us a chance to suck on the seeds and juice. He explains the different varieties. There is passion in his voice.
I select three, one with a strange nob on the top much like a chignon. “It has personality,” I tell him.
As he packs up my tomatoes he puts in an extra as a gift.