White gold

I ask for three lemons from the small basket that sits near the scales. The stall holder selects each one, sniffing their zesty, fine-pocked skins before wiping them with his apron and handing them to me as carefully as if they were eggs. I ask for 400 grammes of Paris mushrooms; small close-cupped, crop-tailed buttons, their creamy flesh tinged rosy-pink. He picks his way through them, his fingers delicate and nimble; then he puts each plump little head into a brown paper bag.

I’m allowed to take the asparagus myself. But he insists on double checking my choice, turning the rubber band-bound bundle of springtime white gold in his fingers.

He lifts the delicate tips to his nose. “When will you be eating these?” Today?”

I hesitate, aware of the growing queue of French women behind me.

Once they’re in my place under the smallholder’s striped awning, each member of this happy, chatty, smiling Saturday morning band will become the most demanding of all his customers.

If they’re not satisfied with his answers, if they do not like his carefully selected produce, his bundles of white asparagus, they won’t be back.

No more questions asked.

The smallholder is still waiting for my answer. “Oui, aujourdhui,” I nod. And he nods once in agreement.

For now he still has the upper hand, and he can’t resist giving the ivory bundle another little squeeze before he puts it in my basket.