In the early 12th century, there lived a Frankish king named Louis VI who would be remembered to history as Louis the Fat (le Gros). Louis IV moved his royal court to Paris, making the city the capital of the kingdom of France. Since the end of the Roman era, the life of the city had been lived along the river Seine, with towpaths laid along both its banks and those of its tributary, the Bièvre. There were then three islands on the Seine: the Ile de la Cité, which had many dwellings built upon it, and two unpopulated mounds that would become the Isle of our Lady and the Isle of Cows. The hillsides of Montmartre, Ménilmontant, Vaugirard and Belleville towered over marshy, foul-smelling tracts of land below. Having made Paris his capital, Louis le Gros made yet another momentous change to what would one day become the City of Light: outside the city walls, in a place known as Les Champeaux – the ‘little fields’ – he set up its first central market. A few decades later, King Philippe-Auguste expanded this market and built two new trading halls for drapers and weavers. The ‘little fields’ became a neighbourhood in its own right, and the market of Les Halles was born. The belly of Paris had begun to rumble.
Later, the market described by Émile Zola as a “many-tentacled monster” would be clothed in the designs of Baltard, a renowned architect whose goal was to build the “people’s Louvre.” At the behest of Napoléon III and overseen by the famous Baron Haussmann, twelve pavilions were erected in 1852. They were held up by cast-iron columns and covered with glass panes, like enormous butterfly houses. A central road ran between the two groups of six pavilions, and each building purveyed wares of a specific sort: meats, fish, flowers, fruits and vegetables, etc.
During the antebellum years, the belly of Paris was always in motion. Motorcars clogged the streets in front of the pavilions. Crates were hurriedly loaded and unloaded in an endless cycle, and there was a deafening noise of tires squealing and horns blaring, of taunts and swearing and griping, and of hard boots clomping over cobbled pavements. Still, it was hard not to be charmed by the buzz of life in and among the pavilions. In one there were grocers proudly presenting their flamboyant stalls, with veiny spring cabbages, soil-covered carrots, smooth-glossed aubergines, swollen tomatoes gorged on sunlight, and potatoes spilling out of canvas sacks. A handful of radishes poked their noses out from wilting leaves. Like pebbled shores sat the bags of brown lentils, dried beans and peas. Then there were the strange shapes of celery, chard and chicory. It was difficult to know which way to look, but the eye was soon drawn to the great colourful signs that bore the names of each trader: Un régal sans égal!, Chez Meursault et Fils, Roger, un amour pour la mer! Each stall owner touted the superiority of his produce.
At “Un régal sans égal”, the butcher was lost in concentration. His was the biggest butchery in Paris. Game carcasses hung on hooks, with rabbits suspended upside down and pheasants with their feet bound, their colourful plumage attracting many a gaze. Boar heads bore their tusks and stags their horns, gazing with glazed expressions at the passers-by. There were all kinds of charcuterie, sausages, blood puddings, andouilles and other pungent-smelling delicacies. The butcher stood proud as a cockerel. His cleaver could be heard chopping through the ribs of a bloody side of beef, the wooden board ringing out each time. Two pigs were laid on the metal table, their guts hanging out. The butcher sharpened his cleaver with meticulous skill before cutting into one. The butcher did not relish the scent of vegetables from the market; he preferred the aroma of smoked ham hock.
A man bought two eggs for the price of one; a boiled egg was a nice warm ballast for a belly in winter. Suddenly, the skies cleared and a ray of sunlight came through the glass roof of Les Halles. On one side, families were queuing for cooked dishes. What was that odd-looking soup? “Bouillabaisse! Bouillabaisse, spiced to your liking!” Roger the fishmonger was humming. His wife had a better head for sales than he; it had been her idea to take the offcuts of his fish and made a Marseillais soup for her hungry customers. The winter had been cold, and folks needed to keep warm. They needed to feel sated. The belly of Paris groaned, as the city-dwellers came to quell their hunger.
Trucks had just arrived, and the sellers began their calls. Just in from Burgundy! Fresh from Normandy! Then it was the turn of Champagne to make its royal entrance, hailed with the sound of horns that rang out in the market halls like a regal fanfare of old.
Alan Alfredo Geday