It is true. It is really all I do on weekends. Forget all your romantic ideas about me strolling along the Seine, searching out the gems of Paris' shopping scene, rubbing shoulders with Michelin-starred chefs, digesting the architectural feast on every street in the Right Bank, bla bla bla. What I do is much more prosaic; I pound the streets to 3 grocers to stock up on food for the week.
Problem is, Popo is a true blue China(wo)man, and only eats Chinese. Everything else is barbaric. So I trudge to the nearest Asian grocer every Saturday to stock up on Chinese vegetables and other staples.
Then I go to a regular supermarket to get the other necessities, e.g. milk, yoghurt, bread, etc. Every other week, I also pay a visit to a large supermarket like Carrefour to get my hands on those yummy corn-fed chicken (at least that's what I guess they are, because they are called "yellow chicken" in French) and other luxuries found in the "World Cuisine" section (baked beans! peanut butter!).
I have also vowed to visit the weekly mobile fresh market (pasar pagi for Malaysians) to try to do what the French does. My strategy is to go as early as possible so that the stall owners/farmers will have the patience to try to understand what this ignorant foreigner who is butchering their beautiful language wants.
Chicken! Rabbit! Beef! Pork! Sausages! Every sort of meat and cut imaginable!
(But how the heck do I order them in French?)
When I first moved here, I used a backpack to lug all the booty home. And why not? That's what I did back in our London days when I traversed the Mudchute Farm every weekend to reach ASDA on the other side for our weekly groceries. And I did it single-handedly while the Doctor stayed home to fill his hallowed brains with important medical facts (or surf the Internet for Top Gear episodes, that £*$&"!). 15kg on my back, 5kg on each hand. No problem.
As I quickly discovered, no respectable person should be seen with a decaying camping backpack on them while walking down the fashionable district that happened to be my neighbourhood. So nowadays you'll find me strolling down the streets in polished, refined Parisian style with a shopping cart. When in Rome Paris,....
My able assistant, Sophie.
She works erratically depending on her mood, what's on TV, and whether she's desperate enough for her bread (see below).
There is one pleasant discovery amidst my humdrum days. France is a land of bread, wine, and cheese. I was never a fan of any of the three. But I am beginning to look forward to my weekly jaunt to the boulangerie to get my brioche, chouquettes, pain au lait and whatever else that catches my fancy. Sophie is also starting to associate Saturdays with the day that she gets her ficelle (a type of thin baguette).
So, the day will come when you find me sashaying lightly down the street, baguette tucked under my arms, shopping cart trailing behind me, loaded with the best chicken cuts from the local fresh market and bak choy from the Asian grocer.
Treats after a full day of grocery shopping
Savouring her ficelle from the boulangerie downstairs
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