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Saturday Marché along with breakfast at La Noisette.
Rick wanted the full English. I was happy with the continental.
We each had our notebooks. I just wanted a warm up exercise, he was looking for people descriptions, easy with half the village and the tourist strays from the summer walking by.
My target was the vendor across the street. My free write is below the photo.
Calamar farci 15 Euros
Paella 10 Euros
The bald-headed cook stood under the umbrella tht once might have been yellow or brown but was now a lack-luster beige.
Three cast iron pans, wider than a new born baby is long but not as thick were brimming with shrimps, clams or crevettes as the French call them made pink waves.
The food was kept by a gas canister below.
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I stopped there. Sitting at La Noisette means everyone we know talks to us.
But this could be the start of any number of short stories.
- The paella vendor was a lawyer and fed up with the drudgery made a career change
- His wife, whom nagged him all the time made the paella. Selling on the marchés was the only peace he got
- He was just filling in for his father who was in the hospital
- The moules/clam vendor next to him was really his son and . . .
- He'd been part of the mafia and was hiding out in this little French village
- He had once been very successful, but thanks to coke, lost everything. He's rebuilding
- He just does this on weekends to supplement his retirement income
- He doesn't keep the paella hot enough and someone gets food poisoning
- He's allergic to shrimp and is looking for something else to sell
Free writing for a few minutes is like priming a pump.
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