At the Salon, there are many children, happy children ...
... vagaries of doing and really nimble hands of parents who smack on the hands of small for strollers exhausted.
At the Salon, I always wonder how the cows, pigs and brood resist this hell, an injection of Valium each haunch perhaps?
At the Salon, I zap the flag of the wine, it is my legs. But this is not true of everyone: to 16 hours, young exponents of an agricultural bank and pimply drunken chant before the bar limousine:
" A-Alexandria ", Alexandria-A, A-one wants to Alexandria! The young waitress, not very gracious, frightened glances to his boss who has seen other shows ... I always
At Salon heartache if I alternate inadvertently funny fat chocolate and sausage
For the Salon, was allowed back-sellers, jugglers swindlers English sausage factory at 20 euros for 7 as the "local markets" of the road for holidays or bad biscuit "craft" pure price of margarine butter
At Salon, the County is 3 times the price it pays there and more expensive than the "small" cheese Germanopratins, we have to pay the booth
At Salon, the Italian ice a dirty color
At the Salon, I have taken the stand of Tatarstan for a Christmas tree Syldavian: under a picture of horse in the steppe, he mingled gilding costumes and highlight the tchak-tchak, gastronomic pride of a republic as large as 2 times the Burgundy
is wheat or rice and fried expanded molded in different ways and glued with honey. In the list of ingredients, there are "butter substitute," I do not know why I think the kloug.
At Salon, we wonder which are high all the ducks who gave their life to the hundreds of stands of foie gras, Hungary surely. Guest star this year, you can not miss the booth because of the tireless dancers claqueurs heel that dance like dervishes relentlessly
At Salon Mali has funded a huge booth where mammas in robe waiting barge, not even through taste broths macerate the mysterious roots of exotic woods.
At the Salon, I always wonder why I continue to queue up for a burnt sausage and a warm aligot, it must be to be sitting next to Auvergne.
Because here, everyone wants to eat at home. Suddenly gregarious, in the absence of restaurant that would serve as brandade, the bourride or bull crap, I sit on a bench with any accent rolling stones river, he was even Cevennes Gave. As seen at the Porte de Versailles, below the 45th parallel we all "own country" and I can tell my fellow diners: "You know, we're in Paris, it never goes up there with the Eiffel Tower ..."
At the Salon was the stark choice between 200 and 200 sandwiches sausage sandwiches with foie gras
A table is the shank that carries the cake 1kg200 all regions, but usually with industrial chips.
At the Salon, it smells like grilled pork, onions and sauerkraut too warm
At the Salon, I bought turron, paprika and limoncello, Hungarian bacon with truffles, pepper Espelette, Basque sauces to put on my tortillas and the Ardennes pâté crust while hot
At the Salon, I found the booth the most photographed, just behind the ass of cows and bulls balls, that of Russian bakery
I missed the show but saw Genevieve Jacques cornaquant its first Miss National in wake of hefty bouncers with earphones; level photos are still ragging the Russian bakery
At the Salon, I lost my bag with turron, presumably at the bar limousine ... exhausted and failing Quézac booth, I had to finish me Badoit ...
