“Les pommes, apples, in particular, and the general experience, to get a flavor of the French approach to food and cooking,” replied Chef Larry, leading the way through the narrow, twisting streets, past trendy boutiques and tired-looking cafés.

“This reminds me of SoHo,” said Sue, who paid frequent visits to her daughter Sidra in New York City. “And not in a good way. It’s very touristy.”

“Not the marché. It’s the real thing,” announced Chef Larry, leading them past some tacky sidewalk stalls featuring watches and jewelry and into a covered area where fruit and vegetable vendors had set up lavish displays of fresh produce.

“My goodness,” sighed Lucy, taking in the huge, colorful arrangements boasting varieties she’d never seen except in garden catalogs. “White eggplant. And look at all that gorgeous asparagus, green and white, too. And the pears and apples . . .”

“Today,” announced Chef Larry, holding up his hand, “we’re going to make a traditional French apple tart. . . .”

“Tarte tatin,” said Sue, letting the teacher know she was no novice when it came to French cooking.

“Just so,” agreed Chef Larry, looking bemused. “And what varieties of apple would you suggest?”

“At home I always use Northern Spies,” said Sue.

“Here we look for a sweet apple, an Auslese or a Tokay. And, of course, this time of year, they are imported.”

“I thought those were grapes,” muttered Ted as Chef Larry led them down the concrete-floored aisle to a stand featuring nothing but apples. All sorts of apples: red and green, yellow and striped.

“Ah, madame,” cooed Chef Larry, approaching the proprietor, a plump woman wearing a flowery, ruffled apron over her gray sweater. “Qu’est-ce que vous avez pour moi aujourd’hui?”

She replied in rapid-fire French, and the two engaged in a lively discussion, punctuated with much gesturing and pointing to the various kinds of apples. In the end, she filled a large bag for him, he handed over an astonishing number of euros, and they all headed out of the market.