Duck Soup

What marks a fruitier is his commitment to his occupation. He can tell you where each piece of fruit has come from and whether it is a better crop this year than last. He is enthusiastic about his product. A fruitier is not the same as a shopkeeper. He does not merely mind the store. He is a man as happy to receive a good-looking case of eggplants as he is to sell them. He would not sell anything less than a good-looking eggplant.
We have a favorite fruitier here. His shop is on one of the more upscale streets, and though it has more meats and fewer vegetables than another fruitier’s, we like to visit him because he is a genuinely interesting person. He speaks very good English and is always happy to practice with us.

Our fruitier is exceedingly proud of his products. “Here, smell this,” he says, as he holds a bottle of basil-flavored olive oil to our noses. “Mmm,” we agree, and he tells us the bottle has been open for three months—just imagine a fresh bottle.

He tries to sell us his meats. There are jars of terrines and cans of foie gras. There is a discomfiting platter of duck legs sticking out of a ball of fat. We told him we were vegetaliens—vegans. He understood. But he still tries to sell us his meats. Each time we visit, he points to something and we have to remind him about our restrictions. “Oh yes, I forgot,” he says, but we don’t believe him.
Once, he really wanted to sell us some foie gras. Apollonia told him even if we ate meat, we would not eat foie gras, the expanded and unhealthy livers of force-fed waterfowl. “No, no, look at this. You can see by the fat, this is not like the bad stuff. I don’t eat that stuff either. Here, you see.” He showed us a marketing brochure of the foie gras he sold. Photos of happy geese in a picturesque barnyard. It claimed the geese were not force-fed. We said, “Oh, that’s nice,” quickly followed by a wait-a-minute. “You’re trying to sell foie gras to the only vegetaliens that visit you!”

Sometimes, though, he is too enthusiastic. I was going to make a fresh tomato sauce and needed a jar of tomato paste. He didn’t have any, but offered a jar of pre-made tomato sauce. “Here, this is better. It has aubergines.”
“Better than my sauce?” I asked.
“Yes, it’s very good.”
I told him I’d make my own sauce. When he rang up my tomatoes, he threw in some free parsley. “It’s beautiful parsley,” he said. “Good for your sauce.”
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