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lines—which recomposed themselves rapidly as people moved from one stall to the next—provided, I discovered, one of the only opportunities for the normally reserved Bretons to banter and chat. If people were in a hurry, they’d come early (before the crowds) and be done in a few minutes. If they wanted to socialize, they’d come later.
    By the end of the summer, I started coming later more and more often, as I learned so much from the conversations I struck up. These would often revolve around the food in front of us. How were the garlic shoots this week? What were the radishes like last week? Why were the local mackerel so small this season? Going to the market twice every week gradually introduced me to the local food culture. I had no idea that this variety of food could be available in one place. And I encountered lots of new tastes: huîtres (oysters, which I finally consented to eat, much to the approval of my father-in-law), moules (mussels, which soon became a favorite, cooked simply with white wine and a little parsley), and cidre (Brittany’s famous apple cider).
    Gradually, I learned that asking about food was a great conversation starter. I found that the best way to initiate conversations was to innocently ask: How do you cook this vegetable? (Or, more often than I’d like to admit: What is that vegetable?) A chorus of voices would respond, offering recipes, debating cooking times, suggesting spices. The ice would be broken, and we would move on to other topics.
    The local fisherman was one of my first allies. By the time the market was setting up at 8:30 in the morning, he had already been up for hours, as the in-shore fishing boats left and returned before sunrise. But he had endless energy and a soft spot for kids. “Furr zee baybee” he would say smilingly, carefully filleting the fresh fish in front of us.
    Everyone in the line discreetly listened to my answers to his gently curious questions about life “ en Amérique ” (English Canadians are, whether they like it or not, lumped in with Americans when abroad). Knowing that September was just around the corner, I would ask him questions about the local school, which his children attended—and where Sophie would be going. With Sophie hanging on every word, he would give upbeat answers with an encouraging smile. And no matter how much I insisted, he would never accept payment for any of the fish I chose for our daughters. He did this with all of the locals, but not the tourists who were still crowding the market, and I felt proud when I realized that this was a sign of acceptance.
    The market was an education for the girls as well. At first, I tended to avoid the “messy” stalls if I had them with me. The butcher’s stall—with the hanging pigs’ heads and the decapitated still-furry rabbits—was a no-go zone. The poissonnerie —where the fish were beheaded, gutted, and de-scaled at the request of each customer—also made me nervous. So I made these rounds without the girls, usually entrusting them to my father-in-law, who would take them for a walk around the square.
    But Jo soon grew impatient with my queasiness. One day, he gathered Claire in his arms and brought her over to the fish stall. Her eyes widened. Raising a chubby finger, she pointed at a particularly large specimen:
    â€œ Poisson! ” (Fish!), she shrieked.
    â€œ Coupe! Coupe! Coupe! ” (Cut! Cut! Cut!), she continued, turning her hand sideways and making a sawing motion in the air. By now, she had the attention of everyone in the line.
    â€œYum yum!” she gravely finished, pointing to her mouth to the sound of approving chuckles.
    My daughter already knew, even better than I, how to make friends and impress people in France.

3
Schooling the Stomach
We Start Learning to “Eat French” (the Hard Way)

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Mignonne,
Mignonne.
Si tu veux du pain,
Je t’en donne.
Si tu n’en veux