The downy, dead rabbit for sale at the market in Paris – 10/20/2023 – Cozinha Bruta

After a month in London, he thought he had the chance to take a walk on the other side of the English Channel.

In Paris, I got off at Gare du Nord. As I had some time, I walked to Gare de Lyon, where my next train would leave. On Boulevard Magenta, I came across the Saint-Quentin market. I can’t see a market that I’m already entering. I entered.

I went to six or seven street markets in London. They are always a collection of typical food stalls from all over the place, with some cool difference, for a public that believes they are the cream of the crop of cosmopolitanism.

Even the Borough Market, which preserves a sector for street market shopping, is completely gourmetized and gentrified in its butchers, greengrocers and fishmongers.

Marché Saint-Quentin is reminiscent of the Pinheiros market before the hipster infestation. It looks like the Ribeira market, in Lisbon, when it wasn’t yet a food court franchise – British, by the way.

Saint-Quentin has a hint of Atibaia’s municipal market, despite the monumental difference in the variety of foods on sale.

It’s a small market, much smaller than the Lapa market, with the usual old-fashioned markets: meat, fish, cheese, salami, vegetables, dry and wet items.

I felt like I was in Amparo or Varginha until I saw, in the butcher’s shop, next to the steaks and chops, a furry animal – with fur, skin, head, ears, paws, tail, all intact – on display, dead, dead.

I can’t tell if it was a rabbit or a hare. Neither the chef Emmanuel Bassoleil, to whom I sent the photo, was able to resolve the doubt. So let it be a rabbit, an image more familiar to the Brazilian imagination.

Of course, the sight of the dead rabbit impacted me – otherwise I wouldn’t write about him. I threw the dead animal into Instagram stories just to watch Brazilians in shock at Gallic barbarity.

Even in France, this type of medieval food marketing is already restricted to neighborhood and provincial fairs. In the supermarkets of life, the standard is the one we know (especially because retail, in Brazil, is dominated by the French): products divided and packaged in the factory.

Urban consumers have lost track of where their food comes from. Take a chicken: in my distant childhood, there were still poultry farms in São Paulo that sold chicken alive or freshly slaughtered. It was disgusting.

Then it became clean. The dead chicken was plucked, plucked and cut, the drumsticks were seasoned with sodium and nitrites, the seasoned cuts were cooked and shredded, ready to be added to pasta sauce or rice.

Finally, the residue of it all turned into sausage and mortadella. You can understand why there are children who don’t know the relationship between a chicken and a nugget.

The village of Asterix, the last bastion on the western front, resists the empire with a furry, dead rabbit impressing Americans and tourists alike.

Or was it a hare? It is not known, but one thing is certain: the buyer of the long-eared and furry animal will not take cat meat home.

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