We’ve had quite a day, visiting Place du Tertre at Montmartre with throngs of other tourists, taking a break in the afternoon, then walking over to where Les Halles used to be. To get ourselves in the proper mood, we were thinking about Emile Zola’s book that takes place in Les Halles, Le Ventre de Paris. (The Belly of Paris). The main character, a fellow named Florent, had been found, barely alive, by a lady at the head of an early morning procession of vegetable carts heading to market at Les Halles.
Le Ventre de Paris
Florent had gotten himself arrested and sent to Devil’s Island, but he escaped and made his way back to Paris. The year was 1853. After being nursed back to health, Florent ended up working in Les Halles. Zola describes Les Halles in vivid detail – the produce market, the fish market, the butter and cheese market, the poultry market, the meat market. Farmers brought every type of food imaginable to Les Halles daily. They sold it for whatever price they could negotiate.
In the fish market, for example, you would find cod, haddock, flounder, slimy conger eels, skate, and dogfish with their big, ugly heads and gaping mouths. Nicer-looking fish were displayed artistically in wicker baskets – salmon, mullet, turbo, tuna. There were mackerel, sand eels, baskets of smelt, and all kinds of shellfish. – And that was just in the salt water section of the fish market. There was a whole other section for fresh water fish.
The clamor of haggling, buying, and selling was everywhere in Les Halles. The fish market, in particular, was known for its sellers who were generally large, husky women that you wouldn’t want to mess with if you valued your life. That’s where the term, “fishwife,” comes from.
Poor old Florent got himself a job as an inspector in Les Halles, and as a result, had to cross paths with the fishwives on a regular basis. They gave him a terrible time. There were times when he probably thought that Devil’s Island hadn’t been so bad after all, (although that was never mentioned in the book).
The story in Le Ventre de Paris goes on to tell about Florent’s escapades with the fishwives and other denizens of Les Halles. Time’s a wastin’, though, so we’d better get back to our own neighborhood. It’s time to find a table somewhere at one of those cafés on Rue Montorgueil.
Saint Eustache
On our way back, we came upon a gigantic church called Saint Eustache. It’s an impressive structure that took about 100 years to build. They completed construction in 1630. That’d be about the time the English were founding the colony of Jamestown over on our side of the Atlantic.
So who was this guy who got a big church like this built in his name? The story goes that he was a general in the Roman army in the 2nd century AD. He was out hunting deer one day when he came upon a big old buck sporting a huge rack of antlers.
He thought to himself, “Hot dog! That rack is going to look great mounted above the fireplace in the den!” But when he took a second look, he just about jumped out of his sandals, because he saw a very clear vision of Christ on the cross, right in the middle of that big rack of antlers. Well, that hit him like a bolt of lightning, and it changed him for good.
He became a devout Christian, which would have been something to see, given that he was a Roman general in the 2nd century. The emperor at the time was none too pleased to have one of his generals go Christian on him. In fact he got so mad that he had the general and his whole family roasted to death in a big bronze statue of an ox. Real nice, eh?
After that, his legend grew. He became known as a martyr and a saint with the name, “Eustace”, (or “Eustache” in french). Today, he’s the patron saint of firefighters everywhere, and of hunters, and of people who are down on their luck. And he has this gigantic church with his name on it.
When we got back to Rue Montorgueil, we found a spot and settled in for some well-earned refreshments and some people-watching. We ran into the two guys we had had a conversation with yesterday. They wanted to know all about our dinner at Frenchie, so we gave them the scoop.
Eating Italian in Paris
Speaking of dinner, it was getting to be about that time, so we walked a couple of blocks to a little Italian restaurant where we had made a reservation. This was one of the places on our list. It was good that we had a reservation, because the restaurant was really small, (maybe 15 little tables). They were busy, too, but our table was ready for us.
Our server was a very Italian guy who was nice. We ordered some Italian vino and an appetizer that he recommended. When it showed up, it turned out to be five or six little plates of all sorts of little Italian tidbits. They were fantastic.
They had opened the doors, so the front of the place was open to the street. Our table was near the front, so we could watch the parade go by as we sipped and nibbled.
We were sipping and nibbling away when an older couple came in. They were shown to a table inside, but they indicated that they wanted to sit outside. Well, apparently that was no problem. In about two minutes our server had moved a table, chairs, silverware, glasses, and everything else outside for them. No problemo!
Our dinners that night were really good. Thank goodness we had to walk back, because when we left that place, we were stuffed to the gills.
To be continued…
Photo Credits
The Les Halles featured image is from www.tnhistoirexix.tableau-noir.net/pages/sommaire-xix-siecle.html
Photo of the fishwives at Les Halles is from www.aparisguide.com/leshalles/index.html
