No French market is bad but some are definitely better than others--and Moissac's is among the best. This is serious fruit-growing country so stalls groaned with peaches, nectarines and, as you can see, humungous figs, green outside, pink-purple within. I liked "Charlotte" and "Mona Lisa": aren't those delightful names for potato varieties?
Cursing because, for once, we didn't have a carrybag with us, we bought some toffee-dark miel de forêt from a honey-man called Jean-Jacques Lacroix (I know this because his name is on the jar) and we couldn't resist a portion of boles de picolat, a southern dish of meatballs, potatoes and green olives. We ate it, with a lardon-studded baguette, sitting on stone steps while the church bells played a noon-time concert in honour of the feast-day of St. Jean de Compostela.
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