It turned out that the stand's owner, a farmer named Nadine Buschiazzo, had a mother who really could bake. Every summer morning, using Nadine's harvest, Antoinette baked 20 or so tarts, sold still nestled in their fluted pans. I paid for mine, then worried about the tin. "Apres fini," Buschiazzo shrugged. "Return it when you're finished." That could have been within the hour, for we devoured the tart right away: A crumbly, tender crust holding sugary-tart fruit set atop a rich, nutty base, it was better, even, than the sea, sand, and sun.