Digging in to French Markets & Ethnoscapes
Marché Jeanne d’arc sits on the rim of a cul-de-sac in the 13th arrondissement, a bustling neighborhood that’s home to Paris’ Chinatown and thus, many Asian markets and restaurants. Despite this, the market doesn’t seem to have Asian inspiration behind it. Around noon on a Sunday, the market wasn’t overcrowded, however, each patron seemed to be on a mission, bee-lining towards one of the myriad of cuisines that the market boasts.
As I walked through the market, the fragrant aroma of each vendor’s creations took me on a world tour in a mere matter of seconds; before I was done wafting in the smell of a freshly baked orange bread, the neighboring booth’s Rougail saucisse – a traditional Reunion dish – overtook my senses. It seemed as if the shoppers had all been here before; they seemed well-acquainted with the vendors and comfortable exchanging smiles with one another.
The tented market seemed to be a microcosm of Italian, Asian, and French cultures – each vendor’s dedication to authentically serving risotto, rice, and fromage, respectively, was indicative of a larger cultural picture; most significantly: French nationalism and its connection to cuisine. A majority of the produce was labelled as French originating; fish wore tags off their necks boasting the French flag and chalkboards above leafy greens read FRANCE in almost urgent lettering.
Men and women stood behind folded tables simultaneously cooking, communicating, and selling. The deeper I went into the market, the more cuisines I became privy to. A man speaking French sold Italian pastas in matte, ochre-colored bags and pointed me towards a jar of sugo al pomodoro. The men beside him had sausages and meats hanging above them and a clear glass setup showcasing other delicacies like tarama, tzatziki, and olives.
After an intense (and stomach-growl-inducing) debate between a handmade jam covered in a plaid cheesecloth or one of the many produce items in the market, I purchased an avocado to use in my dinnertime salad. Not only was I looking forward to eating the fresh food, but being a part of the exchange of such produce allowed me to feel truly a part of this tiny community. According to Tierney’s Anthropology of Food, ethnography relies heavily on “participant observation.. to respect the thoughts and practices of the people.” Walking through the market, I gained a thorough understanding of the French people and their connection to food and marketplaces. The sense of community inherently present in such a market was overwhelming – Marché Jeanne d’arc was a source of dinnertime groceries for a woman pushing a stroller and a snack stop for a hungry runner. Watching in real time as a marketplace served as a hub of culture and community allowed me to wholly recognize the impact and significance of food in French culture.
While I knew that the 13th arrondissement – where my apartment is – was dubbed Paris’s Asian quarter, I had seldom seen any Asian restaurants on the short walk from my apartment to the Chevaleret metro station. Upon beginning my research of the French culinary ethnoscapes, it became glaringly apparent that my close mindedness had prevented me – a self-proclaimed foodie – from exploring a cuisine that was embedded with culture, flavor, and care.
I had never explored this part of the 13th arrondissement before, and throughout the 22 minute walk from my apartment, it became much clearer that the area was steeped in Asian culture. Pho Tai is an unassuming place on a street of a plethora of other Asian restaurants whose signage and storefronts set them apart from the traditional Parisian cafés. Upon entering the restaurant, we were greeted by an older woman in her native language. Though I couldn’t understand what she was saying, the welcoming energy she put forth transcended the language barrier. The restaurant was mostly empty – the hum of a fish tank and the slices of knives were the soundtrack to our meal. There was no facade here, no hostess accustomed to catering to Americans' unruly requests – the same woman who greeted us at the beginning did not let our arrival interrupt her from preparing ingredients at a central table in the restaurant. I couldn’t help but notice the friendship bracelet on her wrist – I felt it was a true testament to the kindness and love that was present in the cooking of the food.
The menu was laminated and traditional with items listed in Chinese characters with a French translation. Chinese new year decor and trinkets hung from the ceilings and the walls. Every corner of the restaurant was imbued with culture. When it came time to order, the language barrier didn’t disrupt the attention given to us. We put in our order of beef spring rolls and the pho speciality. We patiently awaited our meal. Soon after, with a smile, the waitress brought us green platters with toppings for our pho – basil, mint, and lemongrass – and then our food.
After blowing on the pho a few times, I decided to start with the spring roll. My teeth sunk into the perfectly cooked and seasoned delicacy. We were the only people in the restaurant, aside from the restaurant’s staff, and the attention given to us was second only to being at my own home. The woman returned, demonstrating how to properly use the sauces with orange caps that sit upon the table in order to enhance our meal. Feeling at home in a country that’s not my own, eating the food of a culture that’s not my own, is a rare feeling – one capable only by a team who care greatly about the quality of their food and the time put into it.
