The pull of an open market is magnetic. On a bright spring morning in the Tarn, I am drawn past stalls –not too fast –dodging shoppers intent on their conversations with favorite vendors. We are in Castres, an hour east of Toulouse, for a weekend exploring a region of dramatic landscapes, sweeping panoramas, and colorful markets. On Saturday mornings the tidy marble-paved place Jean Jaurès is transformed into a jumble of greens and cheeses, plants and poultry, all under bright awnings in the center of this river town.
Heaps of spring onions, glistening apples from the renowned orchards of the Tarn, and more charcuterie (sausage and meat) vendors than I’ve found anywhere fill the square and spill over into streets lining the river Agout. The pink garlic of Lautrec as well as local breads –the Fouace in all its plump forms- are on my list, and at the edge of the square, I spot willow baskets full of garlic, as pink and perfect as porcelain. They are set out with pride, alongside boxes of fresh eggs, a few bouquets of snowdrops, jonquils, and little bundles of new garlic: the first aillet is ready! Small tables or planks hold these few items brought by farm women to Castres’ market, just as their mothers did a generation earlier. The aillet, or early shoots of new garlic are pulled out to thin the rows before the bulb begins to form. This mild touch of garlic is always stirred into the traditional first of May omelette in farm kitchens across southwest France. I’m delighted to find the aillet, and add it to my basket as well as a sack of sweet onions from Citou- a variety rarely found beyond this region. The Citou onion festival is held in November, and by March, most of the sweet onion supply has disappeared. Before moving on, I can’t resist a few bundles of new radishes. In the Tarn, these are served in a warm salad –briefly sautéed or sweated and stirred into a spinach salad, often with seared chicken livers or foie gras.

Sugar-studded rings of Fouace seem to sparkle (or is it my imagination?) on a baker’s stall, and I pop for a small round loaf, carefully wrapped with little twisted ends on the paper. The special anise biscuits that I recall finding on a previous visit to this region are not to displayed. The pert vendor explains: “Oh, that is a spécialité Albigoise, you might find it in the Albi market”. On our way to the car, I weaken at a cheese vendor’s vast selection of tommes. It is still too chilly for a picnic, but I buy a wedge of bleu d’Auvergne and a slab of ewe’s milk brebis de Larzac. Next, a pot of Miel de Laucun, mountain honey to drizzle on fresh cheese, is irresistible. With great will power, I pass up pre-peppered magret de canard, and garlicky sausages. Our route leads north to Albi, the next market for this spring Saturday.

It is almost noon by the time we find Albi’s old market hall and I’m surprised to find it hoisted onto posts, shrouded in construction wrap. The belle epoque ironwork details under the roof are still exposed, but a pit has been dug below the building. A large sign explains that a three level parking garage is being constructed below, and directs us to a temporary market on the edge of the city’s historic center. This project, we learn later, is being designed by Sir Norman Foster, the architect whose Millau bridge is one of the technical design wonders of our time. Working with a French engineering firm, they have undertaken renovation, keeping the existing hall intact. Within a few years, the refurbished hall will once again welcome shoppers. Meanwhile, with a quick stop at the temporary market tent I find that échaudée, the anise biscuits are still made in Albi, and a sackful is gingerly tucked into my heavy basket. Perfect! We’ll enjoy these with an aperitif, a light rosé from Gaillac vineyards, when we are back at home in the Périgord after a sunny marketing weekend.