This is music to my ears, as I am an American divorcée in my forties (having moved here ten years ago for what is now my ex-husband), and "Mademoiselle" is a term for young girls. I take this as affirmation of my youth - and the fact that the dermatologist I am using for wrinkle filler injections is worth every euro. But just to be sure, I decided one day to find out how the vendors addressed other women I assessed to be past the "Mademoiselle" years. Perhaps it was simply a sales technique? 

So although I was leaving myself open to the notorious pickpockets known to frequent the Saturday market, I decided to make it my mission to see if other women got the same banter. Did they get called "Mademoiselle"? Were they given free flowers if they bought a small bunch? Were they told how pretty they were? 

I decided the best way to do this was to plant myself in front of one of the fruit and vegetable stands, where I could pick up, squeeze and pretend to be assessing various fruits and vegetables and no one would get suspicious. I couldn't do this, for example, at the honey stand, because there are only so many products, and they would probably have me arrested or at the very least dragged off to the local psychiatric hospital for observation if I started picking up all the different honey-themed jars and soaps and started squeezing them. 

Ready to begin, I headed over to the fruit section where there was space in front of the cherry bin between an elderly woman and a teenage girl and her boyfriend. The vendor was occupied explaining the superior origins of his aubergines to a small group of Dutch tourists, so I busied myself by picking up a cherry and starting to study it with the seriousness of a Place Vendôme Jeweler appraising a diamond.

Color? Check! 

Texture? Check! 

Size? Could be bigger, but seeing as there were at least several hundred cherries in the bin I had yet to get to, I wasn't going to be judgmental - perhaps it was the runt of the litter. I tossed the rejected cherry back into the bin, ready to move on to the others. 

"Mademoiselle! Comment allez-vous?" a warm voice boomed. Just as I was about to respond, I looked up to see the vendor gallantly placing a kiss on each cheek of the elderly woman next to me, who was beaming with delight. 

Mademoiselle??? She had to be at least 90!! 

As she slowly accepted her bag of peaches and left, still glowing, I realized I was probably next. 

"Can I help you, Madame?" he barked in a less-than-friendly voice. 

Madame???????? How can he possibly call me "Madame" after calling a woman her age "Mademoiselle"? 

On top of this, he sounded highly annoyed - but he should have been grateful I was taking his cherries so seriously; after all, there are other fruit and vegetable stands, and I was clearly displaying all the marks of a connoisseur. 

Hoping my tone of voice conveyed the fact that I might move on to a competing vendor if he addressed me so rudely again, I curtly told him I was just looking. He curtly told me to stop handling the merchandise. 

At this point I was a bit confused. Surely I was not the only person examining the produce. They should be used to this by now. As a matter of fact, looking around, I saw other women doing exactly the same thing … so what was setting me apart? 

It was then that it hit me: THEY ALL HAVE WHEELY CARTS! I had only my Chanel handbag, clearly the mark of a non-serious shopper. I had two choices at this point: I could leave immediately and come back next week with a wheely cart, or I could look pointedly at someone with a wheely cart, shake my head in disapproval and make some disdainful remark about preferring to carry all my purchases by hand, as I unlike many others here choose to stay in shape by combining exercise with shopping. 

I chose the disdainful remark. 

"It is true, Madame; you do have a beautiful figure," he snarled, rolling his eyes. 

Realizing I was getting off course (not to mention rapidly wearing out my welcome), I bought a sack of cherries and moved on. 

Not wanting to risk this kind of treatment/indignity again, I decided against stationing myself at another fruit and vegetable stand. So it was off to the butcher stand, where there was a long line of people in front of me. Perfect! I could wait and hear how each and every woman was addressed; I didn't even have to pretend to be appraising anything - and best of all, I could buy some pre-prepared, ready-to-eat delicacies! 

Unfortunately, as I waited, it didn't look as if I was going to get any more evidence for my survey, as the place was packed and the clerks were addressing everyone with a cursory "Oui?" 

My turn arrived: 

"Oui?" 

Uuuh ... I'll have 100 grams of the Rillettes de Canard ... and several slices of the roast beef ... oh, and is it possible to have a slice of ham chopped into tiny little morsels (a guilt gift for my kitten, as in her eyes I'm never supposed to leave the apartment)? 

"The slicer is busy, Madame, so I'm afraid its not possible today." Madame???? Madame again???? Couldn't she just have said they were too busy without viciously adding in the "Madame" part? 

I left feeling completely demoralized. Not only had I been called Madame three times already, but I had been rudely berated for cherry appraising and hadn't even had much of a chance to observe how other women are treated, which is the whole reason I was here in the first place. Enough is enough! 

It was off to the flower stand for the white Casablancas and magenta peonies, and then I would decommission and try this again next week. 
"Aaaah! The beautiful Mademoiselle! Look, we have the long white Casablancas today!" 

Finally! A warm welcome, compliments, and as usual, some free roses thrown in as a gift. I knew I could count on the flower people! 

My dignity, pride and faith in the market commerçants had been restored, and I decided to give up the survey, vowing only to frequent the stands where the vendors flatter me. After all, who cares if the flattery and free roses are a sales technique ... a rose is still a rose. 

© 2006 by Jan Roberts. All rights reserved.