A French Christmas

The town square is crowded this morning. Despite the frigid temperature, scores of French men and women brave the bitter cold and the relentless, bone-chilling drizzle typical of Parisian winters, to wander through the open-air market, in search of the freshest, tastiest food for tonight’s sumptuous feast.

          The French are, undoubtedly, the finest culinary alchemists in western Europe. Their meals, a complex balance of rich flavorful sauces and healthy ingredients, offer a symphony to the tongue. It comes as no surprise then that, for the Frenchman, the Réveillon dinner takes precedence over everything else. Not even the gifts Father Christmas slips into the children’s shoes on Christmas Eve bring as much delight and expectation as tonight’s banquet.

Merchants, their faces weather-worn from long hours in the wind and cold, rub their hands and stomp their feet as they call out to shoppers. They arrived long before sunrise to set up their booths, brimming with must-have delicacies special to this time of year.

Above the clamor of vendors and shoppers, Francine Roche belts out her own rendition of Petit Papa Noel, her rich, soprano pouring from speakers strung to utility poles. One brawny vendor sings along, his rich baritone in perfect harmony as he pours a load of raw oysters into a large basin. Silver eels glistening with beads of water stare, unseeing, from their beds of crushed ice. Fresh clams, scallops, and prawns the size of my fist fill my nostrils with the briny smell of the North Sea.

A butcher calls loudly to shoppers, his large, bloodstained apron taut across his ample belly. “Foie Gras!” he yells, his booming voice redolent of the town crier from centuries ago. Pheasants, lambs, ducks, and rabbits hang from poles crisscrossing the green canopy above his head. Plump sausages, linked like box cars on a train, promise a delightful cocktail of flavors.

The smell of roasted chestnuts wafts through the air, their strong, earthy scent tantalizing on such a nippy day. I pause to buy a bagful, relishing the warmth seeping through the brown paper sack as I clasp them in my gloved hands. 

Weaving through the growing throng, I make my way to the bakery stand where tall wicker baskets await customers, packed with crispy, golden loaves of bread still warm from the oven. After parting with a few francs, I pull a baguette from one of the baskets. The crust crackles as I break off one end, steam rising from the loaf’s spongy, white center. I bite off a morsel and my eyes roll in pure pleasure.

Beside me, an elderly gentleman wearing a wool jacket and the iconic beret accidentally jostles my arm. “Two of these, three of those,” he says, pointing in turn to Napoleons bulging with thick, yellow cream, garnished with powdered sugar and chocolate drizzle, and puff pastries oozing chocolate cream. After he hurries off, laden with four boxes of pastries, I step forward and purchase a traditional French Yule Log, a chocolate cake roll bursting with rich buttercream filling, trimmed with meringue mushrooms and mistletoe.

My final stop is the cheese stall where large wheels of Camembert and Gouda are laid out, ready to be matched with the right wine. This is a skill the French have mastered, a great achievement when you consider France boasts more varieties of cheeses than days in a year. I select a nice, soft Brie and pay the vendor, wishing him a “Joyeux Noel” as he hands me the cheese, wrapped in brown paper.

Holding tightly to my purchases, I snake through the mass of people and head home, glad to have shared this moment with my fellow Frenchmen, yet happy to leave the hustle and bustle behind.

It’s Christmas Eve in Paris. Time to prepare a feast.