Salon Saveurs des Plaisirs Gourmands

Today I went to another salon, this one entitled, quite promisingly, the Salon Saveurs des Plaisirs Gourmands - which, roughly translated, means the "flavors of gluttonous pleasures exhibition show". Admission was supposed to be 8 euro, but like at so many french salons, there were free admission cards strewn about the entrance - and so I filled out my name and mailing address and strolled right in without giving up a single centime.
Much like the salon du chocolat, this event was centered around the attempt by a few hundred artisan producers to sell their edible, gourmet products to Parisians - the group of people with the most discriminating palates in the world. In addition, the French are not prone to enthusiastic feedback. Whereas in America, people might respond to samples of free food with an "Oh, it's delicious!," the French believe that they are being generous if they concede a simple "c'est pas mal' (it's not bad).
All this adds up to a rather uncharacteristic show of good salesmanship on the part of the French vendors. Customer service is never a given in a Paris - whether you are shopping for shoes, jewelry, makeup, or food... it can often take 20 minutes to get the salesclerk's attention, even when you are the only customer in the store. Here, by contrast, people try to catch your eye, and thrust at you plates of foie gras, cheese cubes, bread crusts smeared with tapenade, the words "une petite dégustation?" hopefully fluttering from their lips.
I sampled various meats and cheeses, olives, fruits, chocolate and other confections. There was a ton of alcohol to be had as well, but the vendors are more stingy about it - you need to initiate contact and to at least fake an interest in purchasing before you are invited to sample their wares.
Today, my accent garnered me a lot of attention: the knife salesman whose friend made fun of him for using such an unoriginal excuse to dragger (flirt); the guy who kept offering me sheep's cheese while he asked about my romantic availability; the marzipan seller who shivered in joy and complimented my "petit accent de rêve" (rêve = dream). Americans may think that English with a French accent is sexy, but the French think that French with an American accent is adorable, in a sort of charming, kittenish way. "Don't loose that accent!," I've had French men admonish me for simply wanting to sound like a native.
After an hour or two of grazing, I grew tired. Before heading home, laden with gifts, I had to get some coconut "sorbet" from a Caribbean food stand that was enjoying a great success - it seemed that nearly everyone was walking around with a small white solo cup, overflowing with creamy white glace. The ice cream was fresh, being churned as you watched in an old-fashioned barrel by two able-bodied émigrés from the outre-mer. And it was delicious: smooth and cold with a strong but creamy coconut flavor and little specks of spices - vanilla and perhaps some lime zest?. It was the perfect finish to a flavorful, pleasurable, and maybe even somewhat gluttonous gray December afternoon.