Addicted to Market Cheese Tarts

The Queen of Tarts

It is all her fault. She is at the Lausanne Market on Wednesdays and Saturdays, and the smaller Pully Market on Fridays, always with her portable ovens, and always making these tarts with unconscious competence.

I don't know her name yet, but her tart is my sinful breakfast. She loves what she does; she told me so. In a few months, when my French is improved, I hope to interview her when she's not working.

Fortified, I set out to accomplish what I took the #8 bus at 8 in the morning to do: salad ingredients. It has been stiflingly hot for the last week, and we have been supping on salads. One night, chevre chaud; you know, little warm goat cheese on croutons broken up into nice Balsamic Vinager and olive oil dressing. Another night, a sort of Chef's Salad.

In vain I searched for those strange tomatoes, the Cornue des Andes. According to one market lady, the Lausanne market can sell only products grown in Vaud, Lausanne's Canton; the Cornue must be grown in France.

Instead I got a hefty yellow tomato, which I expect will be sweet. Two others, with a bit of the point end of the Cornue, were Belle de Bern. I picked up herbs , potatoes, mixed lettuces with edible flowers, carrots and strawberries.

The market's treasures.

When the #8 bus dropped me off at Alpes, I strode determinedly into the patisserie. At first, I was seduced by the apricot tart, apricots are in season. Instead, for a once a month indulgence, I chose the Pear, called a Napoleon. Why it is nothing like the pastry I think of as a Napoleon, I cannot tell you. I think a thin slice of it, with a few of the strawberries, will be heaven. In case you were wondering, resemblance to the Driscoll's variety was undetected.

N.B. After the market, I swam for 45 minutes.