There was an old lady selling tarts at the Foire de Giat this December morning.
Bundled in an old coat and a ratty scarf tied on tight, she stood at a folding card table across from a toilet block, far enough from the other vendors to suggest she hadn’t paid to be officially part of this semi-biweekly farmers market. An ancient beach umbrella protected her from the drizzle.
As we passed by, she called out to us about her wares: a flan, a honey cake, two tarte aux pommes, and several gâteaux au yaourt—traditional cake made from yogurt, flour, sugar, and eggs that every French kid makes in school at some point, the way American kids inevitably make Rice Krispie treats as a class project.
The first four items were the size of large baking sheets and cut into generous two-euro squares—few of which had been taken. The yogurt cakes loaves stacked behind them filled the rest of the table.
None of it looked terribly interesting, so we smiled and continued walking. About the time we got to our third local cheese vendor, we stopped and looked at each other. “I think she needs us to buy her tarts,” Marilyne said.
We walked back. The woman smiled broadly, excitedly telling us about each pastry.
By her estimation, one of the apple tarts was overcooked. I was prone to agree; the edges of the crust were burnt and the apples were either deeply caramelized or completely black. Nonetheless, Marilyne asked for a square. It would be plenty for both of us, even if we cut off the carbonized parts.
The woman picked out a slice with her bare hands and rotated it so we could inspect it. “Are you sure you want this one? It’s not too cooked?” she asked several times, managing to touch more of the tart than I would have preferred. Every time, Marilyne politely insisted that it was fine.
Despite the icy weather, none of the vendors wore gloves—even the ones who sell gloves. I don’t know how they do it.
As the woman wrapped our purchase in paper, she asked if we wanted anything else, leaning into the yogurt cake, which she seemed especially proud of.
The flan looked thin and also burnt, but Marilyne is a huge flan fan—a flannoisseur, even. I asked if she wanted one of the huge, two-euro slices. She discretely shook her head.
That is to say, as discretely as a French person can shake their head, scrunching up her face, tucking in her jaw, then ever-so-slightly letting a horizontal tremor take over her head as she fluttered her eyes.
The woman didn’t mind. She was also French, so to her it was probably just a normal discrete head shake. Having moved on from the yogurt cake, she randomly began explaining how the toilet block across from her little stand was closed. I handed her a five-euro note. She pulled a small coin purse from her pocket and handed me some change.
We thanked her and continued on our way. Marilyne debriefed me on the intricacies of the exchange that I might have missed, like the toilet block thing. (At this point in my French language education, non sequiturs can completely derail me.)
“She needed to talk to someone, so she talked a lot,” Marilyne explained.
We’re going to Marilyne’s parents for Christmas tomorrow, so we limited our shopping to local goat and sheep cheeses as not to show up in Chamonix empty-handed, and the apple tart which we planned to have for lunch.
When we got back to La Villatte, I pulled the tart out of our grocery bag. I was surprised at how hard the crust was. It felt like I was holding a hardcover book about the size of a detective thriller or a romance novel.
Marilyne unwrapped the tart and put it in the toaster oven as I heated yesterday’s leftover lasagna in the microwave. (I’m trying to cook more lately. Italian food is my go-to.) After lunch we got sidetracked talking. As the smell of burnt crust and caramelized apple filled the kitchen, we realized that we’d re-overcooked the overcooked tart.
Marilyne pulled it out of the oven and gingerly cut the square into smaller squares as I made herbal tea.
To be polite, I picked an extra-burnt square and bit into it. It was delicious. Once cooled, the other squares were even better. The crust was firm, but the inside was moist, just a little sugary, and gave when bitten into. The apples were sweet and the blackened parts tasted more like caramel than anything else.
Marilyne makes a mean tarte aux pommes, but this was, by far, the best tarte aux pommes I’ve ever purchased. We could have easily polished off a second square, carbonized parts and all.
I can’t imagine how good the flan must have been.