I'm not going to lie to you... the person writing this has more calluses on their hands from typing on the computer keys than from laying bricks on a construction site or unloading trucks.

But we've always romanticized the idea of ​​having your own stall at the market. When I was little, I was fascinated by going with my mother to the market. It was a display of craftsmanship that stayed with me, and I only came to appreciate it with time: the fishmonger with his gleaming tools and the scales flying like confetti at a party; the delicatessen owner slicing Popeye-sized mortadella with his travel chainsaw; and, above all, the butcher with that collection of samurai knives that could slice chops with a single, sharp blow or open translucent chicken fillets with the precision of a plastic surgeon's scalpel.

Years and gray hairs later, it's our turn to assemble our own “post”But this one features serums and creams instead of ham, sea bass, or ribs. Here, you don't get half a kilo of chops, but a pack that makes you look younger, more vibrant, and fresher. Because coming here is a bit like stepping into that neighborhood market we were talking about earlier: conversation, friendliness, trust, and fresh produce.