French Letter: If it’s a market day, it must be San Daniele

Wednesday is market day in our local town, and this week, for once, given that it’s November in Brittany, the sun was shining, meaning that half the town was out and about.

There was the usual gaggle of customers at the mobile Italian deli. Annie was there with her husband, Luciano, a rugby aficionado. Over the years, he has established himself as the community’s leading intellectual, with a brief covering everything from crime writing, Michel Houellebecq to the finer points of chamber music to philosophy and politics.

Annie – a former languages teacher – used to run the town’s combined newsagent’s and stationery store but retired some years ago, passing the business on to Sylvie, a much younger woman, who, sadly, couldn’t stick the pace and it was not long until she had to put up the shutters.

Ever since then, I have had to stand in line at the checkout in Intermarché, the larger of our two local supermarkets, if I want to read Le Monde or Figaro, rather than Ouest France or the local rag, Le Telegramme, which, frankly, is a bit of a bind.

As his name suggests, Luciano is Italian and regards the arrival every Wednesday of the stall bearing his country’s finest hams and cheeses as one of the high points of his week. He doesn’t stint himself. Nor, on the other hand, do we.

Only when we have scored eight slivers of San Daniele – allegedly the finest prosciutto – a doorstop block of Parmesan Reggiano and a selection of sausages and soft cheeses, do we make our way to the Café de la Place to enjoy a restorative brace of grandes crèmes.

Typically, in winter, we go inside, to be greeted by various customers and their dogs. This time around, however, preparations were underway for what looked to be a very special lunch. There was an unusual depth of cutlery and glasses on display and two bottles of wine on every table. “What’s happening?” I asked. “A wedding reception, perhaps?”

“Ah non,” came the reply in a low, sepulchral voice. “Le contraire.” And a few minutes later, in they came – the mourners – straight from the church or the funeral parlour (I don’t know which).

They were in fine form and clearly looking forward to lunch. Soon, the sound of commemorative laughter percolated out onto the terrasse, to which we had been directed. The dear-departed had obviously been popular, and his friends and family gave him an appropriate send-off.

Upon finishing her coffee, my wife would as often as not have requested three oysters and a glass of muscadet – a steal at six euros-fifty – but in the circumstances, it seemed best to leave them to it.

Instead, we went around the corner, past the church, and on to the English shop, run by Paul, a former army cook who, when his service days were ended, worked at one point as the live-in chef for a retired general.

I may have mentioned this before, but since Brexit got “done,” Paul has been obliged to import most of his “English” products from Ireland, right down to crumpets and cornish pasties. As we filled our basket with vintage cheddar from West Cork, sausage rolls from Wexford and meat pies from Newry, Paul told us about his young grandsons, who came with their parents two years ago to live in Brittany and now speak fluent French.

“They correct me all the time,” he said – “They think I’m daft, bless’em.”

Their dad is doing well, too, using his experience as an engineer in the Royal Navy to get a job fitting refrigeration systems in stores and other businesses across the region. His only problem was that France no longer recognises UK technical qualifications.

To overcome this, he took the ferry to Ireland, registered there, and brought his new certificate of competence back to France, which immediately accepted it as EU-approved.

And so to Intermarché, where I was due to pick up a parcel that should have been delivered to me at my home except that the delivery driver couldn’t find our house.

This was not the first time this had happened. For some reason, Google has chosen to supply our address on GPS in Breton rather than French. Thus, having literally gone all around the houses, drivers tend to end up calling me on my mobile, seeking clarification.

I always tell them the same thing: straight on at the traffic lights for one kilometre, over a little bridge, and it’s the white house on the left with a red door. Some of them understand this; others don’t – which is why I was obliged on this occasion to plead my case at Intermarché.

The woman behind the customer services counter got down on her knees and threw open a large cupboard door. “What shape is your parcel?” she wanted to know. “How big is the box?”

“About this big, I should think,” I said, forming a box in the air with my hands. I didn’t add that it contained four bottles of Dry Idea deodorant for my wife, all the way from America, and I wasn’t sure she’d understand. Actually, I’m not sure I do.