Fresh French bread

The market in Saint-Louis is just across the French border, and going there has become something of a Saturday morning ritual. When I visit the market there, whatever else I may buy, bread is high on the list—crusty  brown bread, handmade, and baked just in time to get it to the market before I arrive. Often, shopping in Saint-Louis is a leisurely pursuit: meandering the aisles, browsing to my heart’s content, before heading across the street to a cozy café, armed with pastries purchased in the market.

Last Saturday, though, it was raining and cold, so shopping was curtailed to the absolute necessities. No dawdling about, no “window shopping” to speak of. At one point, I moved in close to a busy rotisserie truck, to soak up its warmth, while the proprietor bagged chickens and joked with his customers.

After a sprint through the market to find veggies for soup and a pomegranate or two, it was time to stop for cheese, which comes with a de rigour tasting first. A dear (French) friend introduced me to the vendor, seen here when we visited her on a much warmer day some months ago. My friend no longer lives in Basel, but I think of her every time I am in Saint-Louis on a weekend market jaunt. And especially when, like yesterday, I buy stinky cheese.


After a final stop for bread and pain au chocolate, it was on to Restaurant La Poste for post-market cappuccino, savored with the market pastry.

The place has a festive air now, with decorations painted on windows and doors, and bits of glittery ribbon tucked about.

Across the room, a table of six regulars enjoyed their own Saturday morning ritual.



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