We do the grace matinée, a luxury when one travels and tends to need to be checked out by the the time we actually rouse from today’s slumber, and ready, one, two, three, we’re actually out the door before noon, ready to explore Marie and Thierry’s hood.
Fantastically preppy funky fresh, we accidentally browse through the Sunday morning fruits and veggies market, bright eyed and bushy tailed, eager to try one of each of the twenty varieties of bananas and apples and figs and dragonfruit and mangoes and more the likes of what I recall seeing on the flip side of the equator in Laos.
Yumsters, for sure, and here, we stumble upon the same peel-and-eat seed fruit a vendor offers us yesterday, Graham and I sucking on the leachee-like triangles, one slippery seed at a time.
The colorful spread before us is enough to give me kitchen envy, and my brain works on overdrive, test-thinking through recipes and menus and dinner parties and shakes and four o’clock snacks, coconutty and sweet.
It’s pure delight, this discovery, and I see Marie’s eyes light up to match my intrigue, she the happy explorer of a new world of textures, tastes, and pairings of warm-country exotica.