the greengrocer
My favorite place in Montreal is Jean-Talon Market. There, you can find samples of the best local produce, and, in its vicinity, the best Thai, Moroccan, Italian, et cetera shops. I buy most of my produce from Fruiterie Sami because it's cheap. It's run by really beefy manly-men and on Sundays, you have to push your way in (and push harder your way out). When they fill my bag with lemons and peppers, I feel like such a girl. I went there two months ago wearing a swingy purple girl dress, and one of the greengrocers would turn his head and smile. "Only 2 lemons?" (but ten for a dollar), "the life of a bachelorette!" only in French: seulementdeuxcitronslaviedunecelibataire! but after the lemons, I saw him by the lettuce, then the mint leaves, then the carrots onions grapefruit and every time I'd turn he'd be there. And his fellow greengrocer friends would snicker at him as he leaned over and examined my basket.
I avoided Fruiterie Sami for two months because I found a job and ate a lot of 99 cent pizza. And one Sunday I stopped by, but I didn't want to push my way in.
When I returned today, my greengrocer was right there at the entrance. Comment ça va? Ça fait longtemps, I didn't think you'd be coming back." And so I blushed and tried my best shy-girl French, which is worse than my I'm-going-to-initiate-a-conversation French, which is worse than my I've-had-two-glasses-of-wine French. I rummaged my hands through the tomatoes, distracted and picking the mediocre ones. The greengrocer ("Vous parlez anglais? Vous venez d'où?") put back the mediocre tomatoes, pulled out new plastic bag, and made sure I got only the best tomatoes 89 cents a pound could buy. One by one, tomato by tomato (he called it to-mah-to, let's call the whole thing off), he would take one, hold it up in front of him, and depending on its quality, place it in my bag or chuck it in a box. I watched as bag, box, bag, box until I had a bag full of tomatoes, far more than I'd needed, and the greengrocer eager to give me more. "Ça va," I smiled, took the bag and walked away (how else would I get my grocery shopping done?). The greengrocer winked back, and now I have too many tomatoes.
I avoided Fruiterie Sami for two months because I found a job and ate a lot of 99 cent pizza. And one Sunday I stopped by, but I didn't want to push my way in.
When I returned today, my greengrocer was right there at the entrance. Comment ça va? Ça fait longtemps, I didn't think you'd be coming back." And so I blushed and tried my best shy-girl French, which is worse than my I'm-going-to-initiate-a-conversation French, which is worse than my I've-had-two-glasses-of-wine French. I rummaged my hands through the tomatoes, distracted and picking the mediocre ones. The greengrocer ("Vous parlez anglais? Vous venez d'où?") put back the mediocre tomatoes, pulled out new plastic bag, and made sure I got only the best tomatoes 89 cents a pound could buy. One by one, tomato by tomato (he called it to-mah-to, let's call the whole thing off), he would take one, hold it up in front of him, and depending on its quality, place it in my bag or chuck it in a box. I watched as bag, box, bag, box until I had a bag full of tomatoes, far more than I'd needed, and the greengrocer eager to give me more. "Ça va," I smiled, took the bag and walked away (how else would I get my grocery shopping done?). The greengrocer winked back, and now I have too many tomatoes.