Normandy in November

Unlike the tricky month of October, when days begin chilly and end up deliciously warm, there is no denying the presence of winter in November. There is no cause for despair, however because in Normandy November ushers in some of the year’s best eating. This is due as much to the gorgeous ingredients in season as it is, I believe, to the simple animal instinct to be warm, from the inside out.

To those ends, stews, simmers, braises and hearty, warm desserts are in order. Of course, in France one braves the winter chill to procure ingredients, always a challenge. When I say “brave” I mean it, for standing in line at the market to purchase, for instance, a nice monkfish tail that will be the star of a bourride—that orange-laced, garlicky fish stew—is no easy task. At one of my favorite markets in the nearby town of Le Neubourg, the wind whips around the corners threatening to flatten everything in its wake. Merchants use weights to tie down their awnings, and customers grin and bear it. Produce at Le Neubourg, however, is worth waiting for in just about any weather.

Part of what makes Le Neubourg special is its history. Because the town housed the bakers of the German army in World War II, it was relatively untouched. There are bullet holes in certain facades, including that of the church in the market square. But the buildings are all intact, showing remarkable examples of the lovely tiles that decorated so many Norman houses, as well as twisted timbers used for walls, steep roofs with delicate pottery animals decorating their peaks, and long windows still filled with ancient wavy glass.

Each Wednesday morning the market is filled with ancient charm too. The town has been a commercial center since Roman times, a natural crossroads because of its location on a high plateau overlooking flat, fertile farmland. Its landmark is the hulking 14th-century church of Saint Paul de Neubourg.

The market wraps around the church as markets did in medieval times, and extends the length of the town center. Behind the church is the section for live chickens, geese, ducks, turkeys, guinea fowl, rabbits and goats, and the mémés (grandmas) and pépés (grandpas) with their upturned crates stacked with few—but tempting—bunches of home-grown and home-made produce. One woman offers baskets filled with flat packets of salted or unsalted butter. Another waits expectantly, hoping to sell her two favorite hens and bags of just-picked mâche, what we call corn salad or lamb’s lettuce. Two brothers—they don’t speak to each other—have stands across from each other and vie for customers with nearly identical produce.

Depending on the season, a burnished middle-aged man stands by crates stacked with tiny live, jumping shrimp. Ask for a liter and he’ll scoop a can down, fill it to the brim and quickly pour them into a plastic bag. The price? Five euros. They’re a real delicacy sautéed in olive oil with hot peppers and sea salt, then served on buttered bread, the Norman way.

Farther along, an energetic mother of four sells her family’s dairy products, from fresh milk to cheese curds, what the French call fromage blanc. She offers eggs occasionally, when her chickens are laying. They frustrate the baker because they come in all sizes, from tiny to jumbo, but they have the flavor of real, true eggs, and I love to buy them.

The rabbit man is a study in picturesque Norman peasantry. His mouth is curved in a perpetual smile under a greying, curled mustache, and he usually has a checked scarf wound tightly around his neck against the cold. On offer? Rabbit rillettes, the “light” version of a standard delicacy usually made with pork, spices and plenty of pork fat.

I like to buy olives and that singular, sweet jellied treat from the Middle East, called loukoum, from a lovely young woman who knows just how to treat her clients—she offers generous tastes of everything, from her green olive tapenade to a lovely mix of nuts and anchovies.

Seafood stands abound at Le Neubourg. I have two favorites, one for the quality of everything on offer, the other for the quality and the sheer entertainment offered by the vendor. At the first, everything looks as though it is fresh off the boat from Dieppe, one of Normandy’s major small-boat ports just a little more than an hour from Le Neubourg. Here I’ll buy sole, a sheer wonder for its delicacy, which I’ll cook in butter that turns golden and nutty. When I remove the fillets from the pan I add parsley to the butter and it curls crisp. I stir a drizzle of fresh lemon juice into the pan, and pour the mixture over the sole. It is heaven on a plate.

I take my time walking up to the second seafood stand, because I can watch the show as I approach—it’s so good, it should cost money. The owner is uncharacteristically tall for a Frenchman, and if you watch for a moment, you are certain he’s a seasoned theater actor selling seafood for the thrill of it. His rapid-fire jokes, comments, pointed political asides and bursts of song are more fun than vaudeville. The fact that good seafood comes along with it makes for pure pleasure. I always buy mussels from him or one of his multitude of workers, making sure I’m behind a half dozen people so I have time to appreciate the comedy. When it’s my turn, out comes a burst of song “Suzanneuh” or a cynical tease about something the Americans have just done. My years in France have taught me that the French spare no one in their humor—this fishmonger is no exception.

Across from him is a young man with gorgeous green eyes who sells the best avocados on the planet, and down the way is a burly man who sells gorgeous poultry from his farm. If you need flower bulbs direct from Holland, you’ll find them, next to the man who canes chairs the old-fashioned way. Tea towels? A lively old woman offers a broad selection from the trunk of her car.

Just behind the singing fishmonger is a young charcutier, or pork butcher, offering the ubiquitous Norman specialty, blood sausage—his are seasoned lightly with onion—along with a variety of pâtés, including pâté grand-mère (chunky, with less liver than most); pâté grand veneur (often made with wild boar and garnished with dried cranberries); and pâté de campagne (lots of liver and onions in this one). He also offers rillons, fat chunks of smoked pork fried to golden and intended to be heated, then sliced over a garlicky salad. And those are in addition to his air-cured hams, his boiled jambon de Paris and a host of other pork products.

November is rich in all the pleasures that make a winter table so satisfying, from squashes to ripe juicy pears, toothsome salad greens and an irresistible variety of seafood. Procuring these ingredients at the market, an experience that seasons them with the patter of the vendors, a biting wind and flavors deepened by the cold, makes November in Normandy the most special of months.

BOURRIDE