Chapter 16 Chapter Sixteen

The reason the cars were full, and the reason I got to the square early to admire the red dawn light on the concrete, was that the best food market in Avillon, the Yale Market, was located under the car park. Avillon's Hinterland (1) Place Pie, in the heart of Avillon, is always a desolate scene in the pre-dawn gloom.It is a square with mixed architectural styles, with dilapidated but elegant buildings on both sides, and an ugly modern urban monument facing them. An architecture graduate provided this concrete masterpiece for free to make the square landscape completely different. It sucks!

Around this glaring monument, rough stone slabs are lined with benches where tired tourists can rest and look at something even more glaring—a faded building. The three-story concrete building was full of cars before eight o'clock on Sunday morning.But the reason the cars were full, and the reason I got to the square early to admire the red dawn light on the concrete, was that the best food market in Avillon, the Yale Market, was located under the car park. I arrived a few minutes before six and parked my car in one of the few remaining spaces on the second floor.On the square below me, there were two homeless men with exactly the same complexion as the chair beneath them, and they were taking turns drinking a bottle of red wine.A policeman stepped forward, gestured them away, then stood with his hands on his hips and watched.They walked away listlessly, looking miserable with nowhere to go, and sat down again on the sidewalk on the other side of the square.The policeman shrugged and walked away resignedly.

The boring and silent square is very different from the scene in the Yale market.On one side of the door is the sleeping city, on the other side is the bustling world with bright lights and loud laughter, busy and lively. I jumped aside to avoid hitting a handcart piled high with peachwood crates, and the guy pushing the cart yelled, "Bah-bah-" as he galloped around the bend, followed by a train of The same overloaded cart.I looked around for a place to dodge to avoid the fast-moving vegetables and fruits, and finally rushed into a shop with a "small hotel" signboard.If I was destined to be crushed to death, I would rather let this kind of tragedy happen in a bar.

The sign read "Jack and Isabel," the owner's name.At this time, they were surrounded by guests.The bar was packed, with three people reading the same newspaper, and the surrounding tables were filled with breakfast and possibly lunch guests, and it was difficult to tell which meal was being eaten from the food on the table.A croissant dipped in a hot, creamy coffee, paired with a large glass of red wine and a forearm-length sausage sandwich, or a beer and lukewarm crispy pizza.I suddenly had a craving for the signature breakfast here, a half pint of red wine and a sausage sandwich.But drinking red wine early in the morning is supposed to be a reward for working hard all night.I ordered coffee and tried to see if anyone else had ordered the same thing as I had in the chaos around me.

Yala Market occupies about 70 square yards, with only a few inches left unused, with three aisles separating stalls of various sizes.It's hard to imagine how guests can find their purpose in such a chaotic moment in the morning.Wooden boxes mixed with cardboard boxes and bundles of cardboard were piled high in front of the counter, and there were lettuce leaves, crushed tomatoes, and scattered string beans on the ground, all of which failed to make it to the end during the race against time. Unfortunately, Drops fallen victims. The stall owners were busy writing today's price list, sorting out their products as quickly as possible, so as to save five minutes to take a break at the bar, they shouted for a cup of coffee, Isabel's waitress was like a The acrobat, holding the tray firmly in one hand, leaped across the wooden boxes lightly, even on the slippery floor, even the highly dangerous fishmongers area can still stand safely.Workers with rough hands and bruises, wearing plastic aprons, are busy shoveling ice cubes onto the display iron platform.

The sound of shoveling ice was like smashing glass with gravel, and another more terrifying sound came from the air, that is, the sound of butchers cutting bones and cutting meat with butcher knives. They cut the knife decisively and moved quickly scary.For the sake of their fingers, I sincerely hope they don't drink at breakfast. Half an hour later, I was finally able to leave the bar safely.The piles of wooden boxes have been removed, and the trolleys have been parked. The market that used to be full of wheels now only sees pedestrians coming and going.A team of brooms was dispatched at the same time to sweep up the fallen vegetable fragments, the price had been written on the plastic label, the cash register had been opened, the coffee had been poured, and the Yala Market was open for business.

I never knew that so much fresh food could be accommodated in such a small space, and in such a wide variety.I counted 50 stalls, most of which only sold one type of product.There are two stalls that only sell olives, in every conceivable way: Greek style olives, olives infused with herbal oil, olives mixed with crushed red pepper, Nyon olives, Les Baux olives, It looks like a small black plum or an elongated green grape olive.These olives are packed in short wooden barrels, lined up in a row, bright and clear, as if each one has been carefully wiped.The only commodity that wasn't olives at the tail of the line was a huge bucket of Corio anchovies, filled more than a can of sardines.I leaned over and smelled it, and a salty smell choked my nose.The lady behind the counter suggested that I try it with black olives, and asked if I would make "olive carp sauce"?One can a day, guaranteed to live to 100 years old.

Another stall, selling another specialty: all things feathered.Plucked and tied pigeons, capons, duck breasts, duckling legs, and the nobleman among the three chickens - the highest-grade Perse chicken, with red, white and blue tags like medals hanging around their necks, which read "Full Supervision by the Perth Poultry Trades Union".I can imagine these handpicked chickens being presented with awards from Privilege Members, who are guaranteed a traditional kiss on both sides of their beaks. The fish stalls lined the wall about forty yards long, with gleaming scales and fish eyes, and rows of fish neatly lined up on top of each other.Small banks of crushed ice, still smelling of the sea, separated squid from crimson tuna, abalone from bass, cod from rays.Hills of mussels and snails, soft squid, gray shrimp, iron-black lobster, fish for frying, fish for soup, and the yellow juice squeezed from fresh lemons are still on the counter.The fishmonger deftly opened up the belly with a slender knife and took out the internal organs of the fish. His rubber boots made a rattling sound on the wet stone floor.

It was almost seven o'clock, and the first batch of housewives had already started poking and squeezing the stalls, looking for food to cook that night.The market opens at 5:30, and the first half hour is reserved for buyers and restaurant owners.However, I don't see anyone who dares to refuse the Avillon housewives who are determined to finish shopping before six o'clock.We are often told that the best quality can be bought early in the morning, and the cheapest can be bought when the market closes. It's just who can hold back and wait under the many temptations? !In a short time, I had already enjoyed several feasts in my imagination.A bowl of scrambled eggs becomes a plate of scrambled eggs with peppers and ham, with the ham in stock next door and the peppers a few feet away.That thought kept me going until I saw even more exciting smoked salmon and caviar.But there are also cheeses, sausages, rabbit pate, hare pate, pork pâté, wonderful bolognese balls, duck in honey sauce.

My research ended up being a picnic in a parking lot.Everything I needed - from the first stand of bread to the last stand of wine - was freshly and invitingly displayed within 20 yards.What could be better than starting the day this way?My stomach has apparently adjusted its biological clock to the environment, skipping ahead by several hours.The watch reads 7:30 and my stomach growls telling me it's lunchtime.Time to go to it!I took a step forward, looking for the liquid spiritual pillar - coffee. There are three bars in Yala Market - Jack and Isabel, Cyril and Evelyn, and the most dangerous third - Kiki's House, which starts selling champagne before most people wake up.I saw two burly men, gracefully lifting champagne goblets with thick fingers, toasting each other.There was dirt under the fingernails and on the boots, and it seemed that the lettuce business was doing well this morning.

The aisles and stalls are now crowded with people who buy vegetables, and there is an expression on their faces that they will never turn back unless they buy the freshest, most juicy and the best products, with a little suspicion in their eagerness.An old lady puts on her glasses to examine a row of cauliflowers, which all look alike to me.She picked up a cauliflower with her hand, weighed it in her hand, carefully inspected the tight white cauliflower head, smelled it, and put it back again. After looking back and forth three times, she finally made a decision.She stared at the boss from above her reading glasses, preventing him from taking the defective products in the back row.I remember when I was in London, someone told me not to touch the vegetables in the vegetable market.If this set is also used here, it will definitely cause public outrage.If you don't touch these fruits and vegetables with your own hands, how can you make up your mind to buy them?Any stall owner who dares to offend such a big taboo will definitely be kicked out of the market. Heart of Avillon (2) Although the site below the car park has only been open since 1973, Yaller Market has actually existed in Avillon as early as 1910.That was the only information the girl in the office could give me, and when I asked her how much she sold on a daily or weekly basis, she just shrugged and said, "A lot." "A lot" is really not an exaggeration.Here, containers of all kinds, from flat suitcases to seemingly infinitely expandable tote bags, are stuffed to the brim.An elderly gentleman in shorts, bow-legged and a bump-flat hard hat rides a moped to the market entrance to pick up his morning purchases - a plastic box full of melons and peaches, two packs of An elongated basket deformed by too much stuff, a cotton sack with a dozen loaves in it.He carefully distributes the weight evenly around the bike.The fruit box is elasticated to the rack in the rear seat, the basket hangs from the side handles, and the bread bag is slung across the back.As he left the market with a week's worth of rations, he shouted to one of the stall owners, "See you tomorrow!" I watched his figure disappear into the traffic flow of the square, the small engine of the motorcycle was crackling hard, his head was lowered forward and leaned against the handlebars, and the long loaf of French bread stood straight behind him, like a trembling branch Big golden arrow. It's exactly 11 o'clock, and the cafe opposite the market has lined up tables on the sidewalk, and it's lunch time!