Since I came to Paris to study food, I consider shopping at the market and eating out required homework. After all, I didn't drop my life back in the US to come abroad and sleep on my days off! So on a slightly overcast Saturday afternoon, I found myself slinging my market bag over my shoulder and heading to Rue Cler.

Rue Cler is my favorite neighborhood in Paris, probably because it is a food lover's paradise. A mostly pedestrian street tucked into the 7th arrondissement, it is lined with stores carrying the freshest meats, produce, cheeses, wines, flowers, and chocolates. You can find practically everything you need for a romantic dinner for two or a fashionable cocktail party for 20 on its cobblestone streets.

As soon as I round the corner to Rue Cler from the Metro, I instantly feel at home. My pace becomes slower, although I'm on a mission. I already know which stores I will hit and in which order according to how heavy or bulky the items for purchase will be. As I walk past stores that are later on my list, I absentmindedly scan their displays, picking out the items I'll need with my eyes.

First stop is the fromagerie (cheese store). I've been going to the same place for as long as I've visited Paris, so the faces are always familiar. Just steps before the store, the pungent smell of all things cheese wafts toward me, becoming me forward. I stop at the glass counter set up outside the store to browse the selections, and the two men behind the counter greet me pleasantly. The older gentleman guides me through my choices and accompanies me inside for more dairy delights. The yogurt here is some of the best I've ever eaten, so I take my time picking out wild berry, blueberry, and cherry flavors. The thick, creamy, whole-milk yogurt is loaded with fruit and the perfect mid afternoon snack. The gentleman loads my yogurt and four cheeses - reblochon, Munster with caraway, tomato and olive gouda and some swiss cheese I can't pronounce - into my bag. Again we exchange pleasantries and bid each other good afternoon.

Next I stop at a very famous meat store called Davoli. The lines out the door indicate it's one of the best shops on rue Cler. This Italian delicatessen sells homemade specialties ranging from Italian sausages and meats to pasta, Italian cheeses, side dishes such as roasted peppers, desserts and some of the best choucroute in Paris. The men behind the counter smile as I enter, all dressed in perfectly white and starched long jackets. They're old enough to be my father or my grandfather, and I'm willing to bet several of them have worked here longer than I've been alive. I select delicately thin slices of parma ham, thick rare slices of roast beef, and pork sausage from the mountains. My mouth waters over the marinated artichokes, hand salted smoked salmon, fresh made panna cotta, and other delicacies. But I pass them up as I have many more stops to make.

I do the majority of today's shopping at Les Quatre Saisons (Four Seasons), a large and well stocked produce supplier. All the season's most coveted items are invitingly displayed on two large tables facing the street. I select firm, but almost ripe apricots; deep crimson cherries from the South of France; large, red tomatoes; huge, fat artichokes; several bunches of fresh herbs; yellow beans; thin, slender French green beans; fat peas in their pods; and little plastic containers of raspberries and blueberries.

My bag significantly heavier, it's time to visit the bakery. On the weekends, they set up a table outside the store with mouthwatering displays of freshly baked tarts, breads, pizzas and quiches. The same heavily made up woman always works the tables, sometimes in her ankle length mink coat when the weather is cold. I always know to have exact change as handing her a 20 Euro note for something costing less than five will earn me a scornful look. I ask for a long slender baguette and five beignets (think donut holes but better) sprinkled with sugar. There's barely room left in my bag, so I tear the bread in half and squish it into the bag with everything else.

Today I want pasta, so I swing into another small Italian deli that offers eight different kinds of fresh pastas. My taste buds crave artichokes and mushrooms, so I get both kinds of raviolis sprinkled with a light dusting of flour. I also spy some marinated artichokes, sun dried tomatoes and olives, so I ask the young man behind the counter to make up a small box.

Next to the Italian deli is my favorite flower shop. I come here almost every weekend since I always have fresh flowers at home. During tulip season I used to by arm loads in many different hues. But today I pick fat roses in red and white. The brothers behind the counter remove the extra leaves and thorns, and create a spectacular bouquet. Because a couple of the red roses are starting to fade, they add fresh ones from another better batch and throws two extra buds for free.

As I wander back toward the Metro, I'm quite content. Back at Fabrice's apartment in the 16th, I unload my bounty. The roses are cut to the right length and slipped into a glass vase with lots of water. The lovely fermented smell of the cheeses pricks my nose and lingers throughout the kitchen. I'm tempted to unwrap a slice or two of parma ham to sample it's delicate flavor and saltiness, but decide to wait until Fabrice returns from work so he can share in the delight.

To me, this is what the real Paris is all about.

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