I had always thought that the Porte de Vanves market, a smallish affair on the Left Bank, was the ne plus ultra (do French people ever say this?) of the Parisian flea experience. But I was disabused of this notion by the Antiques Diva, a native Oklahoman who has an enviable life traipsing around European antiques fairs. When I sang the praises of Vanves, she shook her head. “It’s the Ham & Antiques you want!” she said. “It’s on the Île de Chatou, 800 dealers, and the best ham you ever tasted.”

Because there is a God, the H&A — the official name of which is the Foire Nationale à la Brocante et aux Jambons, but is known more familiarly as the Chatou (it is entirely possible that only I and the Diva call it the Ham & Antiques) — takes place over 10 days, twice a year, around the same time as the women’s fashion shows in Paris. I like to sneak off, say, between Dries and Dior, and take the RER to Rueil-Malmaison where a ridiculous Toonerville trolley transports you, after a terrifying if mercifully short ride on a vicious French highway, to the Île de Chatou.

Go early! There are only a few hours to shop before lunchtime, when the fussy little dogs and their surly dealer/owners abandon any pretense of trade and dig into a wine-soaked repast. This is especially easy to arrange at the H&A, since, as its name would indicate, there are plenty of jambon-on-the-bone sellers, along with purveyors of poulet, charcuterie, foie gras and huîtres straight out of a Marcel Pagnol trilogy. A lot of the dealers just walk away from their booths to feast with their friends, which is surprising when you consider the lofty price tags they’ve hung on their deserted stock.

Because the sad truth is that even though this appears to be a tourist-free zone, and you have to take the RER to get here, the prices are by no means uniformly seductive. Then again, who can adjudge the value of an orange-and-black Art Deco porcelain box topped with an evil, grinning clown? (Apparently the dealer can, and he thinks 250 euros is the right amount.) Or maybe you’d rather spend 90 euros for a filthy Bécassine doll, or a third of that for an enamel kitchen canister that says “Chicorée” and is patterned with wallpaper stripes and insipid little flowers.

If right now you are thinking, What is so great about the H&A, anyway? may I remind you that: 1) This is all taking place on a sylvan isle beloved of Renoir, and the market itself has a venerable history. Apparently floating ham markets have been popular in Paris since the Middle Ages (go figure), and around 1840 some secondhand dealers began joining the fun. And: 2) Unlike most American markets, where you have a choice between starvation and a disgusting $8 hot dog, there are menus here to enthrall and delight. Finally: 3) The eclectic, deeply arcane Gallic merchandise is staggering in variety. From my cane seat at the Carremonge, where I await the arrival of a fortifying steak frites, I can see without moving my head a crumbling Oriental screen worthy of the boudoir of Mother Goddam, a glass étagère made when Napoleon was young (maybe), linen shifts that seem to have escaped from a 1930s orphanage and a vast 19th-century memorial plaque made of a dead person’s woven hair (yum, a real appetite stimulant).

Where does the day go? After a mere seven hours, it is nearly time to catch the Toonerville back to the station. Now is when I order a crêpe sucre from the stand at the foot of the Voie Ferrée (the endless aisles have street names — so cute, so French!) and contemplate potential purchases, safe in the knowledge that they will invariably be waiting for me when I make up my mind. (No one ever buys the things I consider; I suppose there is an obvious reason for this, but I prefer not to think about it.)

O.K., I decide as I shove an ambrosial forkful into my mouth, let’s review! The circa 1917 Alsatian Yerri and Gretel dolls are out of the question. (Yes I have been looking for this duo for decades, but 600 euros?) The wooden rabbits anxious to cavort atop my West Village radiator? Sure, at 7 euros each, why not? (But do I really need 12 of them?) Muslin smocks perfect as summer dresses or, if my nerve fails, nightgowns? Check! Would that I could get home that massive quadruple-doored cherub-bedecked armoire, but alas I will have to settle for the battered Bécassine (maybe the seller will come down to quatre-vingt?), plus a homemade monkey in a red jacket. (Moth holes mean he’s really old.) And, just to prove that I am a genuine adult and not some sad oddball with an imaginary toy box that can never be filled — a chipped enamel canister that says “Allumettes” and is decorated with a pitiable row of broken blossoms.

Soon enough, all these treasures are packed up in the H&A’s trademark sacks, which feature a cartoon of a pig banging a drum, ready to be dragged to the last catwalk show of the evening, where only my dust-covered Repettos, and the quizzical head of a toy monkey peeking over the bag’s rim, betray the fact that I have spent a stolen afternoon far from the center of fashionable Paris.