(And until then, I’ll get my fix on Elizabeth’s Lunch In Paris blog — and wait patiently for her next book. :)
I’m hoping to go to Montauk for my birthday weekend (my cousin Renee will be in town, yipeeeeee!!), and all day yesterday I was scratching my head, trying to come up with a main meal to rival the cioppino on my 29th birthday. Well by golly, I’ve got it.
A traditional bouillabaise, served as they do at Fonfon in Marseille: first the glorious bouillon, which you eat as an appetizer, swirling in spoonfuls of aioili and rouille and sopping it all up with semolina rolls, then the fish and potatoes, which you select from a platter and add to the bouillon a piece at a time, so that they don’t get overcooked. Keep adding ladles of bouillon and fillets of fish until you’re as good and jolly as Julia Child on holiday.
As for the logistics: we brought home a jar of Fonfon rouille that hasn’t been touched, and Montauk has such wonderful seafood. Now if only there was an amazing French-speaking man in my life who could make it all happen…..
Aioli in Provence. I’ve been dreaming of a late-summer dinner party that’s all about a big batch of perfect aioli and tons of fresh vegetables. Something exactly like … this.
PS: It’s been almost a year since my dreamy birthday trip.
City snail, country slug. (I really can’t tell you why I was so into capturing these guys, but believe me, I was.)
Meanwhile, on the other side of the table: M. ordered the fruits de mer platter. A taste of the ten best catches of the day, each cooked in the manner that it most shines, plus mind-blowing risotto and fragrant ratatouille.
I told you that trippy fish song was a sign.
Part two of our quest: Chez Fonfon, the Marseille restaurant where everyone who’s everyone (plus me) has eaten the legendary bouillabaisse.
Calling bouillabaisse soup is like calling the Superbowl a football game. It is an experience, especially in Marseille, and especially at Fonfon (one I urge you to grab if ever you get the chance).
The meal began with a basket of bread, as all French meals do, but this selection announced we were in a new culinary region. In place of the traditional baguette, there were semolina and raisin buns with a selection of Mediterranean spreads on the side.
Then came the main course. With bouillabaisse, there in no need to order an entree; the appetizer is built in. First they brought out toasts and little bowls of aioli and rouille, a creamy, spicy sauce of olive oil, red pepper, and breadcrumbs that is a regional specialty. Then they brought out a white china tureen and, with a good deal or fanfare, ladled steaming broth into my bowl. I was encouraged to begin my meal by spreading the toasts with the sauces and dipping them into the broth.
The broth! I imagine that Jack and Jackie, when they visited Fonfon, had exactly the same broth — why mess with perfection? It tastes of the sea, of shellfish, perhaps, of fish, certainly, of saffron, of tomato, and of history. When you swirl in a spoonful of rouille, as you are encouraged to do, the flavors pop, the broth thickens — the experience grows even more alluring.
Next they bring out the fish — poached quickly in the broth — that will complete the bouillabaisse. At Fonfon they serve rouget, rascasse, and lou de mer: nothing more, nothing less. Some Marseille upstarts add lobster, some even mussels — and indeed most American recipes call for some form of shellfish — but the traditional way is with fish. The highest quality, most generously portioned fish.
After showing me the fish, they took the platter away, quickly filleted them, and returned them to my side. I was then to add fish and potatoes to my broth at my leisure, with perhaps a swirl of rouille for good measure. (In this fashion, the fish never overcooks.) When my broth got low, they brought around the tureen and filled me up. I kept gallantly on but I knew I’d never finish three whole fillets. They could have easily fed us both.
“How long do you suppose a person has sat here with their bouillabaisse?” I laughed, “Would they ever just say ‘that’s it, no more broth for you!’?”
(At other restaurants we saw “bouillabaisse for two” advertised for less than what we paid for this “single” portion — but I suppose that’s one secret to Fonfon’s lasting success.)
Finally sated, we drank the rest of our fabulous wine (so happy I picked a man who knows how to pick ‘em), nibbled on raisins from the bread basket — it was all the dessert I could manage — and finally, emerged back into the sun.
Really
and truly
The single greatest adventure of our trip was our quest for bouillabaisse in its birthplace, Marseille. (Waverly Root would like me to qualify that statement by saying we can’t say where the fish stew originated, exactly, because humans have been making some version of it for as long as they’ve been fishing the Mediterranean. But as it is Marseille where the soup was elevated to a high craft, the city can proudly claim it as their own.)
It began when we drove from Cereste to drop my parents off at the Marseille airport. Though we were still in Provence, the climate had changed dramatically during the drive over the mountain ridge, from wooded valleys pooled with mist to the blazing sun and salty air of a Mediterranean port.
The radio changed, too. In the Luberon, signal was intermittent and the music tended toward the cheesier end of the French pop spectrum (which is to say: very cheesy). But a half hour out of Marseille we caught a station that was playing — of all things — Kermit Ruffins, and although I was thousands of miles away, I felt at home.
We didn’t have a map. We didn’t really have a plan. We had a restaurant in mind, though, a legendary one, the place that Jack and Jackie went for authentic bouillabaisse in those glamorous bygone years. We weren’t sure we could find it — and we weren’t sure they’d take us without a reservation — but goshdarnit, we would try.
We let our tourist instincts guide us to the central marina. While we were parking, the most bizarre song came on: “fish, fish, fish, fish, fish…” went the trippy little chant. I turned to M. He turned to me.
“It’s a sign!”
It was.
We peeled off a few layers, soaked up the tropical vibe, enjoyed caffè cremas on the boulevard, and checked out the fish for sale on the marina, including many species I had never seen and only ready about in The Food of France.
And then we got down to the business of bouillabaisse. After acquiring a map and taking just a couple wrong turns, we found ourselves at the sea’s edge, overlooking the island where the Count of Monte Cristo was held prisoner, a monument to Islamic-European cooperation — and that unmistakable aquamarine water.
M. led me down a set of steep steps cut into the rock — and then we saw one of the loveliest sights I’ve ever experienced. Above, a hot and busy street — below, a tranquil cove full of little houses and boats in bright Mediterranean colors.
Chez Fonfon, our restaurant, was located right on this marina. As I held my breath, M. inquired whether they had a table for us….
He reappeared with a huge smile and a thumb’s up. Let the bouillabaisse begin!
To be continued….
Baa-ram-ewe.
Baa-ram-ewe.
To your breed, your fleece, your clan be true.
Sheep be true.
Baa-ram-ewe.
What? You don’t say this to every flock of sheep you come across?
PS: I love that when they’re finished grazing they just take a nap. Bein’ a sheep is hard, man.
Biking in the Luberon. (Note the baguette storage.)
Our 30 km+ ride on a converted train track took us through the back yards of trailer parks and the front yards of luxury wineries. The geography changed seemingly in an instant, from arid hills to verdant fields. As David Byrne has said, you experience a place differently when you’re on a bike.
Wandering around an uninhabited part of Cereste, my parents and I found a very dark tunnel. “Let’s dare ourselves to go in!” I cried.
“I’ll be, uh, right behind you,” Dad said.
Shelley didn’t even answer.
I took one step into the tunnel, then another and another. It was very dark. I couldn’t see anything, not even a hint of a bend in the tunnel, let alone a light at the end of it. I could hear the steady drip of water and — what was that? a rat? Please tell me that wasn’t a rat.
I remembered the region was once a battleground of the French Resistance.
“What if there are Nazis in there?”
“Nazis?” Dad asked.
“Yeah, like they haven’t heard that the war is over and they’re just lying in wait … or maybe they’re ghosts or zombies or something….”
My voice trailed off. It was really, really dark. I looked behind me. “Are you guys coming or what?”
Silence.
I took a deep breath. I told myself: I am 30. I can do this.
And then I yelped, turned around, and ran back.
Phew.
That was close. (There could have been Nazis in there!)
That evening we asked Gwendal and Elizabeth about it. They said it’s an old train tunnel and during the war, the Germans dismantled the tracks to send the iron to Germany.
They also said that it’s very short and, yes, they’ve walked through it. (I felt like an idiot for making such a big deal about the fact that I even attempted to walk in it.)
The next day, with M. and a flashlight, we returned to the tunnel.
Something about having him by my side made all the difference. We walked confidently and soon saw a light at the end. No rats. No Nazis. No ghosts or zombies. Just some graffiti, and the most beautiful pattern of winding tree trunks and leaves half-covering the entrance….
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