Another marché

They were no bigger than chocolate-covered raisins and they were the color of dark and milk chocolate, except they were olives.

“Pourrais-je gouter?” I asked the olive dealer. She wore gloves with the tips of the fingers cut out and was stamping her feet to keep warm behind her table that was covered with the yellow and orange stripes of the Catalan flag.

“Bien sûre.” She had a filigreed metal scoop that she dipped into the large bowl identical to the other bowls that held different flavoured olives. All the others were normal size. She held it out for me to sample.

Usually I bought the basil or garlic-flavoured olives, but these had almost a cinnamon taste. I took a scoop and put them in my olive dish with the little indentations for the seeds.

There is something about an olive dealer that is so much more fun than buying a jar in a supermarket. The most fun is in the eating.