The Week Before The End Of The World: Europe Goes On Vacation

My husband is in Spain right now, trying desperately to fit 6 weeks of meetings into two days. His Spanish clients will soon be off to their villas and beaches. The Italians are already there. The French have been off since Easter. They call it the week before the end of the world.

I went to our outdoor market on the Boulevard de Belleville this morning. No more blushing flat peaches and artfully arranged turnips. The small producers are strict about their time off. The fishmonger will be around till Saturday, but after that it's supermarket chicken till September.

My parents arrive tomorrow with my 13-year-old nephew. It is his first trip to Paris, and I want him to dive into the experience face first. We will hunt down a strawberry so ripe it resembles the platonic strawberry that scientists try to copy in a test tube. He will look his fish straight in the eye before he eats it, head and all. Then there is the requisite ogling of the honey-soaked North African sweets at La Bague de Kenza.

While Lucas is on a voyage of culinary discovery, my parents will be settling back into their Paris food routine. My mother has found Roulette, a soft garlic and herb cheese that stands in well for Philadelphia. Paul has discovered ¯ubrówka - bison vodka with a thin blade of grass floating in every bottle. Stocking up on these provisions before they arrive creates the atmosphere of a homecoming, rather than a vacation - quite a big accomplishment for a little round of cheese.