Last time I was in here, it was Friday and spectacular. A cheeky chien trotted perkily down the middle of the rue with a baguette in his mouth. Champignons, wild like delicate orchids, tumbled from wooden boxes. Monsters of the deep with claws akimbo lay spread on ice. Hares hung from hooks over coils of sausage and chickens that were thick-boned from healthy life. Fromageries oozed their heady pungency. Patisseries seduced me with the sweet scent of tartes, a crumb of which could exhaust your tastebuds for a week. Today is Sunday. Rue des Martyrs is desolate.
From City-Lit Paris, edited by Heather Reyes.