“Yes,” I said wistfully. “I would. Unfortunately, there aren’t any markets around here at this time of year. In the summer, you can find a couple of farmer’s markets, although they’re about half an hour away.”

He looked at the tomatoes, then at me, aghast.

But it was in the cheese section that his morale collapsed. “Good God,” he said. “It’s all vacuum packed and in plastic. Don’t you have any laws to protect human rights in this country at all?”

“We can get good cheeses. There’s a specialty market near here. Not as good as in France, but still a good selection.”

“Can we go there next?” he asked anxiously.

“Okay, but first I want to get some frozen fruit. I haven’t had a good smoothie in more than a year. Your countrymen just don’t grasp frozen drinks.”

“That’s because when something’s that cold, you can’t taste it.” He broke off, his head cocked to one side. “I knew there were purple potatoes, but red and green?”

I followed his gaze to the package of frozen fries, splashed with images of crinkle cuts in virulent shades of red, green, blue, purple, and yellow. “Oh. Hmm. I’m not sure there are. They might add food coloring to, uh, I guess make it more appealing. They do that to a lot of kids’ foods. You noticed the purple and green ketchups?”

He looked at the package another long moment and then back at me. “Explain to me again how you managed to think your country was sane?”

“Let’s go get your cheese,” I said.

We really did have a store with a nice cheese selection for the South, not only French cheeses but some from Spain, Italy, Greece, and Israel. Sébastien was a bit surprised, both by that and the wine section. “You mean other countries besides France produce wine and cheese?”

“Yes.”

“That you can actually eat or drink?”

“Yes.”

He opened his hands defensively. “Well, who knew?”

I was picking out a slice of Spanish manchego and attempting to impress the cheese clerk with my sophisticated knowledge of European cheeses when Sébastien came back from the French cheese section. “Laura. The Camembert’s been pasteurized.”

“Oh, has it?” I darted a glance at the clerk to see if he understood French and lowered my voice. “Is that bad?”

“Is that bad?” Sébastien’s nostrils flared, and he stared at me as if he’d discovered he was marrying a black widow spider.

I looked from my manchego to his face and past him to the vast cheese selection. “Umm. I think cheese has to be pasteurized to be imported into the United States.”

He gazed at me in utter despair for a long moment before turning and walking away toward the bakery section to see the bread in store for him.