The Joy of Food

Where do you go when you've just watched France scrape a narrow win over Wales in a rugby match? What is the correct response to your adopted country's progress into the rugby world cup final? After taking a moment to realise that it was market day on the Place Baudoyer, we decided to celebrate by communing with the cheese lady.

My husband was confident enough in his language skills to have a discussion with an elderly French stallholder about goats cheese a couple of weeks ago. Deftly she steered him away from the appetising pyramids of fresh, young cheese, proffering instead an extremely blue and furry morsel which she assured him was not too strong. Despite its putrid appearance we took the plunge and it was actually a delicious cheese, when shorn of its coat, so we went back. A different but equally firm and forthright lady was manning the ramparts of fromage this time. Directly after saying our bonjours we found a slice of hot baguette spread with something creamy thrust into our hands for us to try. It was thus that this time we left with a tub of mild yet pleasingly smooth goats cheese mixed with chopped red grapes. We rushed home to consume it in its entirety, accompanied by fresh bread and farm cider.

Here in France fresh food is for life, not just for high days, holidays and controversial rugby victories. In the dark chill of the early mornings people now take refuge in warm boulangeries, queueing for bread and those unique, buttery French start-the-day pastries. The baguette shelves are restocked frequently throughout the day, some loaves being sliced in two and filled with creative combinations for the lunchtime rush. I am working my way through the cheese-based offerings of our local bakery, enjoying rich, palate-caressing morbier and fig jam one day and tangy brebis with red cherries the next. Late afternoon sees the biscuit and cake trade begin in earnest, with serious faced schoolchildren asking very politely for eclairs whilst their parents treat themselves to slices of extravagantly decorated gateaux, glistening with sugar syrup, fruit or chocolate pieces, alongside their second helping of fresh daily bread to take home as an accompaniment to dinner.

In the greengrocers the grapes lie artfully draped across tree branches and the avocados are lined up neatly, like a phalanx of knobbly green soldiers, all standing to attention and facing the same way. Bunches of fragrant herbs scent the air, along with the sweet but slightly acidic tang of berries by the punnet load, grapefruit swollen with juice and piles of oranges. The potatoes sit, well scrubbed and classified carefully by variety and size, cardboard signs proclaiming their names and country of origin. A great deal of the fresh produce is actually from France - if it can be grown or produced here it usually is, for this is a country big enough and diverse enough in climate to provide a wide variety of foodstuffs. Visiting in late spring we have sampled the first wild strawberries coming up from the south whilst now in autumn we are savouring the last, late crops of heavy, flavoursome vine tomatoes.

The homegrown product of which France is most justifiably proud is, of course, its wine. In the wine shops the space reserved for wines from elsewhere is usually small. My husband's eyes light up at the sight of a lonely wineseller behind the counter and he moves in to practice his French in style. He relishes the chance to try talking about the soil and the varied qualities of the grapes from different regions, starting with his favourite, carefully accented and translated, opening gambit: "I like Bordeaux, but I'm looking to try something new..."

The trusted supermarket is always there when you need it, of course, as is the little epicerie located on the first floor of the WHSmith English Bookshop on the Rue de Rivoli. As well as stocking the meat-free Parisian's friend Quorn, strangely elusive throughout France but available here in sausage form, it sells a wide range of English treats. Most prized amongst its offerings for me are Marmite and Heinz beans. Having experimented with a tin of "haricots blancs" in a "sauce tomate" from the local corner shop, I can confirm that these are not the same as English baked beans. I did not enjoy these salty, almost bitter things masquerading as beans on toast and have been forced to admit that, in this case, beans really do mean Heinz. On the whole, though, it is just as convenient for us to wander along the Rue Rambuteau and buy fresh food as it is to get so called "convenience food" bought during a big, weekly supermarket shop. Places are open fairly late, so as to catch weary workers on their way home to apartments with stunning views but often minimal kitchen space. It's just easier and nicer to buy what you need when you need it.

Most nights the long climb up to the fifth floor is fragranced with the smell of a different culinary work in progress coming from every landing. Fridays are usually the best, with the large Jewish family downstairs cooking an enormous Shabbat meal that takes all day to reach its deliciously tempting sundown peak. This emphasises, in fact, the deep rooted link between culture and food that is so apparent here in France. Along the Rue des Rosiers the very French traditions of artisan foodshops owned by highly skilled butchers, bakers and purveyors of freshly cooked street food combine with specifically Jewish notions of gastronomy to create distinctive taste experiences. Likewise the presence of a vibrant gay community in the Marais means that we also have close by us an out and proud baker/chocolatier/pattissier, who produces moreish tartes, bread and biscuits in both conservative and more risque shapes. He is very proud of having created a chocolate bottom for a BBC programme on the Marquis de Sade. Buying food here is not simply about satisfying a basic need. It is about participating in the joy of living with verve and gusto.