I had already entered the mirrored mahogany foyer of my apartment building, thinking about dinner, and what to cook. Running through the list of fresh vegetables I bought from the market this morning, I am brought back to the shining yellow and green of the epicerie I had just walked past, shining onto the thickening twilight, right at the corner of St Jacques and Royer-Collard – the one run by the friendly French-Africans: mushrooms. I want mushrooms.
I grew up feeling vicariously allergic to mushrooms; my father’s allergy caused me to instinctively associate all edible fungus with nausea. A funny craving, appropriate only in that the lingering dampness of the afternoon’s rain and the moist, fresh darkness creeping across the horizon and spreading navy across the sky are reminiscent of a thicket at dusk.
The green-grocers wear royal blue coats that glare under the yellow lights. Their dark chocolate skin crinkles at the corners of their eyes; all three of them are balding and have crooked white teeth. One had already begun to pack away the cucumbers and potatoes and beans from the front stand when I walked in.
They all greet me: “bonsoir, madame.”
“Bonsoir - avez-vous des champignons?” I ask, nervous, I don’t know why.
“Oui, bien sur madame. Je vais les chercher.” The one with the sparkling eyes smiles at me and goes to the back, where they have already been stacked away. I tell him I only want a few, just a little handful. He holds up three bulbous mushrooms, lightbulb shaped and just as pale.
“Non, pas celui, je voudrais les autres…les differents.” I don’t know how to tell him that these mushrooms remind me of plastic pizzas and the burning sensation of vomit before it rises. I want the other mushrooms, the different ones, the ones that the vendors hawk at the market, freshly picked and on sale just today, everyday.
“Ah,” he says, and nods his head, understanding. “Tu veux les Gironfles.”
He crosses the storage room and rummages carefully in another crate. He asks me how many, and I repeat: just a few. He proudly presents me with his two hands full of orange-yellow, wrinkly-ruffled creatures. Organically shaped, but precise, soft; like rubbery flowers.
Yes, perfect, but I tell him that’s too many, I only need a few, just a couple.
“Non, non madame – tu as besoin de plus. C’est pour combien de personnes?”
Just enough for me, sir. I’m just cooking for me, and besides, I’ve never even tried them before, sir. I just want a few to try; I’m feeling brave tonight and I’m mysteriously in the mood for mushrooms. I don’t even know how to cook them, really. Just a few, please.
“Tu as seulement besoin de l’ail et l’huile d’olive – oh, c’est si delicieuse – mais tu doit prendre plus, assez pour deux personnes, et cuisiner pour moi aussi, oui, c’est mon favorit,” he says, affectionately patting me on the arm and laughing.
Oh but sir, I laugh, too, I only have a small little room, it’s ever-so-small and it’s at the top of eight flights of stairs. Yes, it’s just up the street from here, but no, no, I don’t even have a table, really. I will come back tomorrow and tell you how I liked them. I will probably buy a persimmon to try, too.
To the greengrocer: the mushrooms were supple, earthy, and delicate.
I grew up feeling vicariously allergic to mushrooms; my father’s allergy caused me to instinctively associate all edible fungus with nausea. A funny craving, appropriate only in that the lingering dampness of the afternoon’s rain and the moist, fresh darkness creeping across the horizon and spreading navy across the sky are reminiscent of a thicket at dusk.
The green-grocers wear royal blue coats that glare under the yellow lights. Their dark chocolate skin crinkles at the corners of their eyes; all three of them are balding and have crooked white teeth. One had already begun to pack away the cucumbers and potatoes and beans from the front stand when I walked in.
They all greet me: “bonsoir, madame.”
“Bonsoir - avez-vous des champignons?” I ask, nervous, I don’t know why.
“Oui, bien sur madame. Je vais les chercher.” The one with the sparkling eyes smiles at me and goes to the back, where they have already been stacked away. I tell him I only want a few, just a little handful. He holds up three bulbous mushrooms, lightbulb shaped and just as pale.
“Non, pas celui, je voudrais les autres…les differents.” I don’t know how to tell him that these mushrooms remind me of plastic pizzas and the burning sensation of vomit before it rises. I want the other mushrooms, the different ones, the ones that the vendors hawk at the market, freshly picked and on sale just today, everyday.
“Ah,” he says, and nods his head, understanding. “Tu veux les Gironfles.”
He crosses the storage room and rummages carefully in another crate. He asks me how many, and I repeat: just a few. He proudly presents me with his two hands full of orange-yellow, wrinkly-ruffled creatures. Organically shaped, but precise, soft; like rubbery flowers.
Yes, perfect, but I tell him that’s too many, I only need a few, just a couple.
“Non, non madame – tu as besoin de plus. C’est pour combien de personnes?”
Just enough for me, sir. I’m just cooking for me, and besides, I’ve never even tried them before, sir. I just want a few to try; I’m feeling brave tonight and I’m mysteriously in the mood for mushrooms. I don’t even know how to cook them, really. Just a few, please.
“Tu as seulement besoin de l’ail et l’huile d’olive – oh, c’est si delicieuse – mais tu doit prendre plus, assez pour deux personnes, et cuisiner pour moi aussi, oui, c’est mon favorit,” he says, affectionately patting me on the arm and laughing.
Oh but sir, I laugh, too, I only have a small little room, it’s ever-so-small and it’s at the top of eight flights of stairs. Yes, it’s just up the street from here, but no, no, I don’t even have a table, really. I will come back tomorrow and tell you how I liked them. I will probably buy a persimmon to try, too.
To the greengrocer: the mushrooms were supple, earthy, and delicate.
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