nodded his approval and produced a well-stuffed wallet from his back pocket.
Elena and Sam had been watching the performance with interest. “Do you think you could do that?” asked Sam. “You know, haggling?”
Elena shook her head. “I tried it once. Didn’t work.”
“Where was this?”
“Dallas. Nieman Marcus.”
Alphonse and Regis, the best of friends once more, embraced and exchanged fond insults before Alphonse, with a lordly wave of the hand to Sam, by now carrying both shopping bags, set off for Elodie, her melons, and her peaches.
They found her, as Alphonse had warned them, bursting with indignation. She was a slight, pretty woman, with a tanned face and blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, and she barely had time for a double kiss with Alphonse and a nod toward Elena and Sam before she launched into her least favorite topic: those dastardly Spanish peach growers.
“Do you know,” she said, poking Alphonse in the chest with an agitated finger, “they’ve worked out this new
arnaque,
their latest scam. They deliver to supermarkets in France without first setting a price; they see what the French price is, then they undercut it. How can we compete? French production of peaches has halved in the past ten years.
C’est scandaleux!
”
Alphonse, who had heard similar complaints before, patted her on the shoulder. “I know, I know. But what you must remember,
chérie,
is that your peaches have a flavor, a finesse, that no Spanish peach can hope to equal.” He turned to Elena and Sam. “Look at these peaches! These are very early—encouraged, no doubt, in Elodie’s hothouse—and they are superb. If only Monet were here to paint them. We must have the whole tray.” He picked out a peach and held it up. “The secrets of choosing a ripe peach are color, feel, and smell.” He passed the peach to Elena. “You see? There is a uniform rosiness, with no green patches. Now squeeze it: firm, not mushy. And smell it, as you would a glass of fine wine.”
Elena inhaled. “Wonderful. A vintage peach.”
By now, Elodie had regained her good humor, and was ready to move on to her melons—her Cavaillon melons—which she said even a Spaniard would have to admit were the finest in the world. She handed one over to Alphonse, who weighed it thoughtfully in his hand and tapped it with his knuckles. “Did you hear that?” he said to Elena. “That is the correct sound, as if the melon were hollow. Now we must see if it’s ripe.” He passed the melon to Elena. “At the top, you see what we call—excuse me—the nipple. At the bottom there is a little stalk. This is the
pécou,
or tail, and it should be the same color as the melon. Now look closely. If there is a tiny crack around the tail, tinged with red, that is a sure sign of ripeness. We call it ‘the drop of blood.’ In fact, it’s formed by sugar coming from inside the melon and crystallizing.”
The melons and peaches were paid for and packed. Elena and Alphonse strode off in search of cheese, and a heavily laden Sam followed behind. After a brief stop for basil and garlic, they arrived at the stall of Benjamin, a good-looking young man with a beard. “Don’t be put off by his youth,” said Alphonse. “He grew up with goats. He was making cheese while he was still at school.” He turned to Benjamin. “
Alors, jeune homme
. What do you recommend today?”
Benjamin grinned, his teeth white against his black beard, and pointed to the display on his stall. “They are all good, but there is one cheese here that every man should taste before he dies: my Brousse du Rove.”
“Ah,” said Alphonse. “I had hoped it would be here. We are very fortunate. This is goat cheese at its best. See how white it is? See how creamy it is? This is a cheese that is just as happily eaten with a touch of black olive
tapenade
as with a fresh fig. In other words, you can have it as an appetizer or at the end of the meal as a dessert. Or both.” He took a
Elena and Sam had been watching the performance with interest. “Do you think you could do that?” asked Sam. “You know, haggling?”
Elena shook her head. “I tried it once. Didn’t work.”
“Where was this?”
“Dallas. Nieman Marcus.”
Alphonse and Regis, the best of friends once more, embraced and exchanged fond insults before Alphonse, with a lordly wave of the hand to Sam, by now carrying both shopping bags, set off for Elodie, her melons, and her peaches.
They found her, as Alphonse had warned them, bursting with indignation. She was a slight, pretty woman, with a tanned face and blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, and she barely had time for a double kiss with Alphonse and a nod toward Elena and Sam before she launched into her least favorite topic: those dastardly Spanish peach growers.
“Do you know,” she said, poking Alphonse in the chest with an agitated finger, “they’ve worked out this new
arnaque,
their latest scam. They deliver to supermarkets in France without first setting a price; they see what the French price is, then they undercut it. How can we compete? French production of peaches has halved in the past ten years.
C’est scandaleux!
”
Alphonse, who had heard similar complaints before, patted her on the shoulder. “I know, I know. But what you must remember,
chérie,
is that your peaches have a flavor, a finesse, that no Spanish peach can hope to equal.” He turned to Elena and Sam. “Look at these peaches! These are very early—encouraged, no doubt, in Elodie’s hothouse—and they are superb. If only Monet were here to paint them. We must have the whole tray.” He picked out a peach and held it up. “The secrets of choosing a ripe peach are color, feel, and smell.” He passed the peach to Elena. “You see? There is a uniform rosiness, with no green patches. Now squeeze it: firm, not mushy. And smell it, as you would a glass of fine wine.”
Elena inhaled. “Wonderful. A vintage peach.”
By now, Elodie had regained her good humor, and was ready to move on to her melons—her Cavaillon melons—which she said even a Spaniard would have to admit were the finest in the world. She handed one over to Alphonse, who weighed it thoughtfully in his hand and tapped it with his knuckles. “Did you hear that?” he said to Elena. “That is the correct sound, as if the melon were hollow. Now we must see if it’s ripe.” He passed the melon to Elena. “At the top, you see what we call—excuse me—the nipple. At the bottom there is a little stalk. This is the
pécou,
or tail, and it should be the same color as the melon. Now look closely. If there is a tiny crack around the tail, tinged with red, that is a sure sign of ripeness. We call it ‘the drop of blood.’ In fact, it’s formed by sugar coming from inside the melon and crystallizing.”
The melons and peaches were paid for and packed. Elena and Alphonse strode off in search of cheese, and a heavily laden Sam followed behind. After a brief stop for basil and garlic, they arrived at the stall of Benjamin, a good-looking young man with a beard. “Don’t be put off by his youth,” said Alphonse. “He grew up with goats. He was making cheese while he was still at school.” He turned to Benjamin. “
Alors, jeune homme
. What do you recommend today?”
Benjamin grinned, his teeth white against his black beard, and pointed to the display on his stall. “They are all good, but there is one cheese here that every man should taste before he dies: my Brousse du Rove.”
“Ah,” said Alphonse. “I had hoped it would be here. We are very fortunate. This is goat cheese at its best. See how white it is? See how creamy it is? This is a cheese that is just as happily eaten with a touch of black olive
tapenade
as with a fresh fig. In other words, you can have it as an appetizer or at the end of the meal as a dessert. Or both.” He took a
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