Just beyond the northern city limits, a twenty-minute trip outside Paris takes you to Saint-Ouen. On a Saturday morning, you emerge from le metro confines into crowds hawking fake bags, watches, sneakers, and the fabulous flavor of illicit urban edge enterprise. Keep your focus and don’t get sucked in by the smell of roasting corn, sly slight-of-hand games, or sassy street fashion. You’re on your way to a historic Paris market. You must stop at La Chope des Puces. I went for a glass of wine, closing out the rosé season, but the couple next to me made a much better choice devouring a massive and beautiful piece of meat. This little bar is the spiritual home of “Manouche,” or gypsy-style jazz, and perhaps the most renowned venue for the music.