Of all the varied provinces of France, the one which least needs the tub-thumping of press agents and the gaudy adjectives of travel writers is the fabulous strip of Mediterranean shore line which runs between Marseille and Menton. Writers of mystery stories, from E. Phillips Oppenheim on, have built up a glittering picture of the Riviera in the minds of millions. The tabloids have surrounded it with an aura of lush unreality and unattainable romance, just as Hollywood has been glamorized in the minds of French teen-agers. The thousands of G.I.'s who first invaded this coast and later occupied its swank hotels, converted to leave centers, have told the folks back home all about it.
By this time, everyone knows that France bursts into a rainbow of iridescent color when it kisses the cobalt blue of the Mediterranean. We are all prepared for the haunting aroma of lavender and thyme and for the tapestry of fragrance which blankets the hills around perfume-conscious Grasse. We have heard about that incredible climate, balanced by the unchanging temperature of the sea. We are prepared for umbrella pines, dare palms, and gnarled olive trees of timeless ancestry. We expect to see oranges, tangerines, and lemons bursting forth in balustraded gardens. We have a hazy idea what goes on in those casinos and those expensive night clubs, for we've read the Sunday supplements. We have reacted, with the reverse of indifference, to the current Riviera bathing apparel, provided it is displayed on a supremely graceful chassis. In short, there is no need for any spadework, any orientation, in writing about the Azure Coast. The job has been done long ago.
With your consent, therefore, I'll waste not another word on luxury-laden villas or quaint hill towns, but will get right down to the business of this meeting, which is to discuss the fare of the French Mediterranean coast as it is served forth in the winter of 1949-50. This is quite a large order. The number of good restaurants here is positively alarming. The Riviera attracts well-upholstered visitors who, in turn, attract perceptive restaurateurs. The short-has been studded with gastronomic shrines for generations. Within the past five years the question of nourishment has risen from utter desperation to comparative plenty. In the process a few startling changes were inevitable. One must heave a sigh for departed glories and look for new names, for young, ambitious cooks and a fresh generation of hôteliers. A mere month, the span allowed your roving correspondent, is hardly long enough to explore the subject. So, at the very outset, may I point out that this little epicurean pilgrimage is not all-inclusive. It hits many of the high spots, leaving the rest to your own initiative. For those who arc flitting through, these paragraphs may prove sufficient. For winter-long visitors, they are only a beginning. Now that I'm well buttressed with alibis, let us proceed by easy stages along the bejeweled coast.
Marseille
The most cosmopolitan of French cities is our first stop. We choose Marseille not because it is the crossroads of a hundred races or the gateway to the Orient, but because it is the home of one of the world's most celebrated dishes. the divine bouillabaisse, (which rhymes with “Do ya, Bess?”). What reams have been written about this aromatic creation, and what controversy it has caused! There are purists who insist that the real bouillabaisse can be realized only with a precise formula of Mediterranean rockfish, vegetables, herbs, garlic, saffron, and olive oil. To alter this composition by adding langouste, mussels, or crab, for example. is to descend to the depths of culinary anarchy. These exacting gourmets wax lyric about the Mediterranean fish which must grace the perfect bouillabaisse. First and foremost, it is the rascasse which contributes most to the aroma of the dish. Then you must have the firm-fleshed rouget, the “rooster of the sea.” Then the vive, a delicate fish with a thorny hide, and the baudroie, or sea devil, “with an enormous head and a disgraceful body.” Then the roucau, “elegant and agile, with a blue back and green undertones,” and the solemn Saint-Pierre, a fish named after a saint, no less. Finally the whiting, the grondin, the loup de met, and the conger eel must be represented in the sublime melange.
All this is pretty discouraging to the non-Mediterranean enthusiast and to those who think they achieve a pretty good version of bouillabaisse at home. While other loyal gourmets in Marseille admit that shellfish may be added none of them will listen for an instant to the idea that bouillabaisse can be achieved away from the Mediterranean shores. Plenty of skillful cooks in France, England, and America have proved the contrary, bur don't waste your breath trying to convince anyone in Marseille!
One thoughtful critic has simplified the problem of la bouillabaisse by likening it to one's taste in women. Some prefer a chaste Rubens blonde, some covet a not-so-innocent brunette with big black eyes, while others cherish a smoldering redhead whose coppery locks arc laden with lustrous overtones. So it is with bouillabaisse. It can be innocent or sophisticated, depending upon the allure of its perfume, the sensuousness of its spices. With this thought well in mind, your correspondent set gingerly about the business of finding a thoroughly seductive bouillabaisse in Marseille. It wasn't hard to find, because for years my friends have been telling me about the RESTAURANT ISNARD, at 4 rue Thubaneau, a street which parallels the celebrated Cannebière. The bouillabaisse which shared my table at this ancient restaurant turned out to be a perfectly charming courtesan with discreet good taste. A delicate white wine from Cassis added greatly to her appeal. I doubt whether a more flawless interpretation of the dish can be found anywhere. This restaurant has earned an enviable reputation among French epicures, and its traditions have been maintained by the same family since 1820,
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