A Pig in Provence (14 page)

Several brownish red fish with bulging heads and fins as sharp as pins followed. They looked familiar to me, like the small, mottled fish my brother and I used to catch off the rocks in Southern California. We called them sculpin, or scorpionfish, and we were told to throw them back because they weren’t good to eat, being bony and tasting of iodine. “These, the rascasse,” M. Bruno said, pointing to the small fish, “are essential to
bouillabaisse.
And they must be cooked whole, with their heads. Bony these rockfish are, but with a fine flavor and firm flesh. You’ll see.” I wondered if we could have cooked our sculpin after all—and whether not eating them was dictated by custom rather than by taste.

Next came another rockfish, the
galinette,
followed by a small eel, so flexible it seemed still alive, and then a largish, silver-black fish. “Now look at this. Isn’t it splendid?” He slid it from his hands onto the laden platter.

“Look how clear and bright the eyes are, the skin so slippery—all the signs of a
poisson du jour,
no more than twenty-four hours out of the sea. Of course, everything I have today I bought this morning off a boat. But, this, the
loup de mer,
is my favorite fish, with its tender flesh, sweet and full of the taste of the depths of the sea.”

One of the burlap bags revealed a large hunk of monkfish. “A very ugly fish, but good, firm flesh. This fish is an important element in a well-balanced
bouillabaisse.
And its head—there, look at that! Have you ever seen such a head?” he said as he turned another bag upside down, releasing a diamond-shaped, heavy-boned fish head, surely the pit bull of the fish world, its serpentine spine curling as it spun into the corner of the cooler, coming to rest in a ghoulish coil. I had never seen a monkfish, but I
certainly agreed that it was ugly. More fish heads tumbled out of another bag.

“Before we begin the
fond,
though, we need to season our fish. Here. Sprinkle this over them all. Be generous.” The
fond,
I had learned, was the base of the soup. He handed me a wine bottle fitted with a stainless-steel spout. I had seen these before, so I knew it was olive oil, bought in bulk then bottled at home, just like wine, something Donald and I were starting to do. I doused the fish while M. Bruno sprinkled them with sea salt, pepper, and saffron threads.

“And now, some fennel seeds.” He rubbed a head of dried wild fennel between his fingers and the seeds scattered across the surface of the fish. I picked up some and did the same, releasing the sharp, sweet scent of licorice. He laid more fronds of fresh, bright green fennel, abundant now in late spring, across the fish. My nose tickled, there was so much fennel in the kitchen.

We spent another half an hour making the
fond
for the
bouillabaisse.
Ethel and Donald came in and out of the kitchen as we cooked. Ethel, intrigued especially by the fish on the platter, checked the fins and sharp teeth of the
rascasse,
comparing them to the delicately etched mouth of the
loup de mer.
“These are much prettier, don’t you think, Mom? That one,” she said, poking the side of the rascasse, “looks scary and sharp.” I thought again of pulling sculpin from the seaweed beds off the rocks, taking them off the hooks, and throwing them back, carefully holding each one in a towel so I wouldn’t get stabbed by the fins.

The
fond
began with olive oil, and we added leeks, onion, garlic, and tomatoes, along with freshly gathered wild thyme, sautéing everything in a large kettle until the kitchen was filled the fragrance of the earth. Then the fish heads and bones from the cooler went into the pot, along with the small crabs and the
eel from the platter. I watched as the meat changed from opalescent to opaque, and the skulls began to emerge as the meat softened and fell away from the bones.

“Keep stirring while I get the
petits poissons.”
Reaching into the cooler, M. Bruno pulled out a bag, opened it, and gently poured a rainbow of two or three dozen small fish, some no larger than my little finger, into the pot of hot oil and vegetables. Their red, orange-yellow, and olive-green hues quickly turned a uniform gray, their bright eyes sinking and becoming white with the heat.

“These little rockfish give the
fond
its richness. Like the
rascasse
, the
petits poissons
are essential.” As he stirred, the fish gradually broke down and melted into the vegetables. Water and a length of dried orange peel were added, along with salt and pepper. As the stock simmered, the aroma subtly changed from the scent of the hills to that of the sea.

While the soup base simmered, M. Bruno led me through the steps of making the
rouille,
the garlicky, red pepper–based mayonnaise that we were to eat with the soup. We sliced a
baguette
and put the slices in the oven to dry (never grill them, he said), and then rubbed the rough dry bread with garlic cloves.

Donald and Ethel had gone for a walk, looking for old Roman tiles. I stepped outside onto the terrace to visit Oliver, who was cooing and kicking his feet and waving his little arms in his baby chair while Mme. Bruno set the table under the chestnut tree, talking to him all the time. I walked to the edge of the terrace and looked out across the silent valley to the beginning of the Alps in the distance and thought how lucky I was to be experiencing this life. Then, after kissing Oliver, I went back into the kitchen.

The
fond
was finished, and we put it into an large, old- fashioned food mill, turning the handle until the crabs, fish heads,
petits poissons,
eel, herbs, vegetables, and liquid were transformed into a thick, brownish gold soup. The fish bones and other debris were left behind in the mill and discarded. We strained the soup through a large, cone-shaped
chinois,
just to make sure there were no bones. As I held the chinois while M. Bruno poured, I was enveloped with the fragrance of the soup. I was getting hungry and my mouth was watering in anticipation.

When we finished straining, we put the soup into a large, clean pot. My teacher set the flame to simmer before pouring pastis for everyone. Donald and Ethel had returned by then with a bag full of finds, which M. Bruno exclaimed over and promised to peruse in detail after lunch. He passed around a plate of toasts with
pâté
and I ate several while he continued to talk about
bouillabaisse.

“The secret, the truth of the
bouillabaisse,
is in the boiling. The olive oil makes a
liaison
with the broth, and the fish are roughly handled by the boil, giving them a raggedy look. If the fish are not a little ragged, the
bouillabaisse
was not made correctly.” He smiled and wagged his finger at me. “Remember that the next time you have it at a restaurant.”

As we sipped our
pastis,
M. Bruno added a cup of soup with dissolved saffron threads, stirring it into the soup, then slid in the firm-fleshed fish, which must be cooked first, checking his watch. The soup, now on high heat, boiled over the top of the fish, and I watched in fascination as their skin broke slightly and whole chunks began to flake as they went from raw to cooked. When exactly twelve minutes had passed, he added the more delicate St-Pierre and the red mullets. These he cooked for six minutes.

“Ah,” he smiled, “smell that.” He was leaning over the pot, fanning the rising steam toward his nostrils. “There is nothing like a good
bouillabaisse.
Nothing.” Donald and I copied him,
sweeping our hands over the soup to bring us the aroma of the sea made fragrant with saffron and orange. Ethel insisted on being lifted up so she too could wave her hand over the steaming soup, sampling it on the air.

M. Bruno gently removed the whole fish and chunks of monkfish to a platter. He ladled the soup into a tureen and set both on the table, which was already holding baskets of warm bread and bowls of
rouille.
M. Bruno instructed us to put a piece of bread into each of our shallow, rimmed soup plates and then ladled some of the soup over it. We helped ourselves to the spicy
rouille
that he passed, spooning it onto the softening bread. M. Bruno told us to eat while he filleted the fish, but first he filled our wineglasses with
vin blanc de Cassis,
the crisp white wine that comes from just east of Marseille.

What a taste! The bread rapidly became soft enough to cut off bites with a spoon, which I dredged in the
rouille
and the thick, intensely flavored soup. The explosion of flavors and textures was unforgettable. With each spoonful, the combination became better, and I kept thinking, how is it possible that this elixir was made with fish heads and bones, small crabs, and fish almost too small to identify? Soon my bowl was empty, and as I looked around, I saw the other bowls were empty as well. It was time for the fish.

When our host finished his tableside display of the deftest boning I have ever seen, he offered us the fish, serving us some of each, then ladling more soup into our bowls, again passing the
rouille
and bread. Each fish had its distinct taste and texture, contributing to the wonder of the
bouillabaisse.

“Très, très bon, chéri,”
exclaimed Mme. Bruno. “The fish are perfectly cooked, just the way your father would have done it. Bravo!” We chimed in with our compliments as well. Even
though we had nothing to compare it to, we were sure we were eating the true Marseille
bouillabaisse.

The quai de Belges, bordering Marseille’s Vieux Port, is still the place to buy the freshest fish and shellfish right off the fishing boats. Many that pull up to the quai are registered in Marseille, indicated by the letters “MA,” for Marseille, following the registration numbers lettered on the sides of the boats. A lot of them are owned by families that have been fishing for generations. Knowledge of the secret places where the rocky shorelines shelter the
rascasse
and eels, the exact locations and fathoms for St-Pierre and
dorade,
and which stretches of sandy open spaces along the bottom hold the flatfish, has been passed down from father to son.

Marseille has been an important port ever since it was founded in the sixth century b.c.e. It is at the crossroads of Europe, Asia, and Africa, and through it at one time flowed all the foodstuffs and goods of the known world. Pilgrims set sail from here to the Holy Land and immigrants arrived here from France’s once-extensive colonies. The flavor and taste of the city’s exotic history come together in
bouillabaisse,
its most famous dish.

Like all traditional dishes,
bouillabaisse
is saturated with lore and history. Every family, every port, and every neighborhood along the coast between Marseille and Toulon prepares a version. There is even a Marseillais legend that says Venus fed it to her husband, Vulcan, so that, once satiated, he would sleep while she carried on a dalliance with Mars. According to some stories, the soup was brought to Marseille by Greek mariners from Phocaea, in Asia Minor, who founded the city. These fishermen, and those who followed over the centuries, were purported to have boiled
the leftover, unsalable, even spoiled bits of their catch in sea-water. Scholars have found no mention in historical documents that would substantiate this tale. Some say that because the water of the Mediterranean is so salty, such a soup would be unpalatable, if not inedible.

The name
bouillabaisse
is thought to have originated from
bouillir,
to boil, and
abaisser,
to turn down.
Abaisser
also means, in culinary usage, to reduce, which makes sense in this context because as the soup boils it reduces. Although the primary meaning of
abaisser
is to lower, the heat must be kept on high not only to reduce the contents but to create the essential
liaison
of olive oil and broth that, along with impeccably fresh fish and saffron, defines a good
bouillabaisse.

Travelers in the 1800s, including Mark Twain, Émile Zola, and Gustave Flaubert, mentioned
bouillabaisse
when describing their sojourns in Marseille, as did the famous French gastronome Curnonsky, who called it
soupe d’ôr,
golden soup, and raved about its essence and flavors.

By the mid-1800s, Marseille and the Côte d’Azur had been discovered by the rich, and fancy hotels and restaurants vied with one another for fame and for the customers who were passing through their city. During this period, the golden soup as it is now classically made emerged, flavored not only with olive oil and garlic, but also with saffron, fennel, orange peel, onion, tomatoes, and aromatics.

The
bouillabaisse
with which most of us are familiar—a clear, sparkling broth laced with chunks of white fish, shrimp, mussels, and even scallops and lobster—has little in common with the
bouillabaisse
one finds in the best of the coastal restaurants from Nice to Marseille. A Charte de la bouillabaisse, created in 1980 and signed by eleven restaurants, most of them
in Marseille, states the ingredients and the method of preparing and serving a “true”
bouillabaisse.
This came about because an increasing number of dishes being served as
bouillabaisse
strayed far from the original version, endangering the very nature of the soup. The charter allows more flexibility than M. Bruno would have permitted. It acknowledges that shellfish can be added, as can potatoes, and that
aïoli
can be served as well as
rouille.
For the rest of the ingredients and the style of service, M. Bruno’s version would have fit exactly the parameters for a true
bouillabaisse
according to the charter.