Christmas Market

Didn’t we have a lovely time the day we went to Strasbourg? 

We had done no research on the place, other than muttering about its having something to do with the European Parliament, so it was, in fact, a splendid surprise. The charabanc was there at The Glacis in Luxembourg, just as promised, having been organised by the British Ladies Club (twinset and pearls not necessary) ready for the two and a half hour coach ride. The weather could have been better and the scenery was therefore cloaked in a light grey drizzle. But I did notice that the buildings changed, their roofs more pointed and brightly coloured above their white walls as we travelled deeper in to Alsace.  

Amusingly, if in a slightly alarming and ironically seasonal way, there was no room for the coach at the Park and Ride... but the driver seemed unfazed, so we left him trying to hide a 50 seater coach under a hedge. The trams were sleek and quiet, snaking alongside the pavements, ringing their bells to hurry pedestrians away from the tracks. Edinburgh take note: the tram system is fantastic. It is quiet and clean, fast and simple to use, and in Strasbourg, it links all the suburbs to the main part of the city for a mere 1euro 50. 
It was anybody’s guess where the stop for the Christmas market was. We just followed a family from the coach who looked like they knew what they were doing. But this plan came to naught as they turned to us and said, “Any idea where to get off?”. It made sense therefore to alight where the crowds seemed thickest (density, not brain power) and found ourselves at the foot of the tallest Christmas Tree we have ever seen, surrounded by the wooden booths and carnival tents of the Charities’ Christmas Market. Jolly, but not the ultimate goal.

Signs to the Christchild Market seemed more promising. Sharply angled streets, jettied buildings, frosted and garlanded shop windows and, marvellously, a horse-drawn double decker omnibus, complete with top hatted driver and conductor.

 It is evidently a Strasbourg tradition that the shops and businesses bedeck the entire frontage of their buildings with ribbons, bows, greenery or with gingerbread men, snowmen and twinkly lights best shown in the photographs attached. I paused in front of a chocolate shop to admire novelties for the tree, as richly decorated as a Faberge egg. And at 20 euros per bauble, I put even my chocolate loving brakes on. Please note the restraint.

 

The Christchild market filled a square. Perhaps a hundred cabins clustered in rows, where the shoppers and on-the-hoof diners pushed and dawdled breathing in the hot cinnamon sugar of gauffres and crepes, the barbecue tang of sausages, and the fondue of cheeses melted over pretzels.

  “ I’m ravenous” we said in chorus. But, wisely resisting these delights, mainly because I wanted to eat in the warm and sit down for a proper lunch, we sought a restaurant. “La Marseillaise” seemed promising, if gloriously inappropriate for such a land-locked place; the board outside proposed choucroute and Slavic style meats. Yet there was also a Magret de Canard on offer, and Dearly Beloved was interested in the Jarret Braise.
  “ I’m up for a braised shin of anything,” he declared, and we joined the queue. Tables were arranged in long rows, and the room was steamy and loud with the chink of cutlery and the chatter of the well fuelled.

“If you are not pressed, “ said the proprietor, who had such undeniably Slavic features that I looked nervously behind him for the Magyar hordes, "I will have a table for you in five minutes." I assured him that we had all the time in the world and within a couple of minutes we were shoe horned between a young and absorbed couple dealing efficiently with chocolat au fondant and a carafe of white wine, and an older, more serious couple, still earnestly debating the menu. Dearly Beloved ate the bread  that was already on the table which awoke the young couple from their chocolate reverie sufficiently to insist, “ No please, eat it, we didn’t want it anyway”. We were only slightly embarrassed at eating their bread.They were on the pudding course..  

We ordered quickly having already made our choice outside on the pavement, and we were unsure what was involved in the special of the day, Choucroute Alsacienne. Behind Dearly B, a table of four, whose figures suggest years of skilled and thorough Gourmandise, attacked plates piled high with soft white cabbage dotted by the palest of pink sausages, white boudin and an even paler pate topped, like icing on a cake, with a thick layer of fat.

  “ I’m glad I didn’t choose the  choucroute , “ I said to DB, “ I think I would have had nightmares.”

Elizabeth David herself in "French Provincial cooking": describes  the "...amber green and gold choucroute" as "somewhat formidable" but that one "should at least try them once." Hmm, maybe.
The magret was rich and sweet, in a thick mushroom sauce,  wintry warm while the shin of pork was  slightly charred, savoury and wholesome the fat chips crispy on the outside and fluffy in the middle. Not an exceptional meal but tasty,  providing us also with the opportunity to dine in an ancient building, to observe the Franco-Slavic charm of the owner as he swiftly took orders, made recommendations, joked and laughed and provided the bill with ease and grace, to watch the excited families on adjoining tables, where a small boy threatened with every toddler gesture to topple the tall bottle of coke at his mother’s elbow. Meanwhile, the diners behind DB finished their meal with a rich sugary savarin and a digestif.

Warmed and emboldened, we dived in to the market. Unlike some of the markets we have been to recently, a lot of the produce seemed to be well crafted rather than cheap imports. Some lovely scarves and gloves, hats, handbags, tree ornaments, I was never going to get started in shopping for others. Mentally I had pretty much spend the budget on myself. But I did find a couple of gifts.

 “ Are they a present? Shall I wrap them for you?” was the invariable request of the stallholders, as they reached for curly ribbon and scissors. We never felt rushed despite the crush of other shoppers and the stallholders were keen to discuss their products and to talk to us. Of course tehr was the stall selling small china moles  - every typeof mole you could imagine: Elvis moles, golfing moles, moles in tutus or in dresing gowns, Nativity. " Is there a terrible problem in Alsace? " I asked, "with moles?" But apparently not. mMaybe the statuary is successfully preventative.

We moved on out of the market through streets bearing the names of the trades and guilds that had worked there for hundreds of years, the mercers, the fishmongers, the  hatters, and followed the sound of music, past the the intricate carvings on the face of the cathedral, to reach the edge of a crowd gathering on a square. We could hear two voices: a tenor and an alto, with a lute and selection of bells.  But, and this was the best surprise of the day, there was but one man, seated in the middle of the square, playing an Irish bouzouki. Magnificently tattoed and pierced, he wore the costume of a troubadour and sang such a sweet and true counter tenor, that it brought tears to my eyes. We bought his CD straightaway and I have attached a link to his website that you might find interesting.

  ( http://www.myspace.com/lucarbogast)

The ancient streets, the smell of roasting chestnuts from the “steam trains” on every corner, troubador music, twinkly lights strung overhead, the shops full and bright, this was the Christmas shopping experience I would always have preferred. The shops too offered a range of goods and services that were not all high street names. We were deligthed to find a milliners, where DB and I both bought hats. At last I have found a hat to go with my lovely camel coat, a gift  last Christmas. DB even had his hat stretched on an aged hat stretching mould so it now fits perfectly.

As the evening progressed, we found more markets, selling candles, Alsacienne eaux-de-vie, breads, cakes, honey and soups. Only the engagement with the coach forced us to leave. Our last stop was at a bakers and tea room, evidently shutting up but still keen to warm through some quiche for us to take away. The trams were now full and we stood like sardines to return to the Park and Ride, where the driver  had successfully parked. Our fellow travellers had shopped and eaten, but I think we had the best experience, having avoided the fatty cheap cheese snacks, and the chain stores. And nobody else had heard the Troubadour.