Kalamata odyssey

After the New York Times posted a sequence of Greek recipes, I found myself craving olives. Something I miss about America, and by America I mean New York and by New York I mean Fairway, are those great big barrels of olives. Monoprix doesn’t even come close.

I have, however, great faith in Paris and its ability to produce delicious food stuff, so I won’t yet mourn the olive.  I’ll have to look around some marches and epiceries but for the instant, I must confess to be disappointed. Giving up on Monoprix and its ilk, Antonin and I went on a quest (like Odysseus!) into the heart of Paris.  Although we sampled several different Greek traiteurs and avoided that siren known as baklava, we came up short. I won’t name any names, but most of the kalamata olives I bought were mushy and too salty, as if they had been sitting in their barrels for weeks. I may have had more luck had I been searching for French olives (surely Parisians won’t permit a substandard salade nicoise?).

In any case, all suggestions would be appreciated! Otherwise I may have to run away to Provence.