Cracked Corn and Fuzzy, Part I
The French Connection
Sitting in the Charles de Gaulle airport for 6 hours after not sleeping for twenty four I felt a bit more like a character out of Casablanca waiting for a flight to freedom then Henry Miller escaping the stagnation of America. Slightly nauseous from the extensive odor of perfume both sold and worn we managed to find a safe haven at an airport brasserie at which to enjoy a pint and a croissant.
My first croissant in France.
This was to be a momentous occasion and at first I thought perhaps a croissant from an airport would be a strumpet of the craft. In actuality, it was quite good, buttery, and flaky. Thus so far it has been one of the better croissants I have had. Or perhaps I was just deranged from jet fuel.
I am sitting in a villa in Bouc Bel Aire currently, no croissants at hand, by a pool, under the Provencal sun. This is where the French want to live. This is where you want to live. From a meteorological standpoint, the weather is perfect, warm sun and light breeze. Bouc Bel Aire is situated nearly equidistant between Aix de Provence and Marseilles, a sleepy bedroom community for those who work in either of the two. Our hosts, Pascal and Marianne, work respectively in both towns. Pascal works for the aviation department while Marianne works as a swimming instructor for the city. Being both public jobs they make a decent living with many benefits that come of working for the state in France. Marianne is fairly shocked by the fact that Americans may or may not get vacation and at most it is only two weeks.
Aix and Marseilles are very different cities while being in fairly close proximity. Marseilles is ancient; it smells ancient and looks ancient, old stucco buildings smothered in graffiti that is not particularly good. As an American I can appreciate inspired graffiti, this is not what Cézanne would have wanted to see Marseilles adorned with. At times Marseilles seems to be a movie set of the futuristic world we have obliterated ourselves into. The buildings crumbling into themselves while fresh laundry hangs on the lines which run window to window. The mini trash strike doesn’t help the situation with refuse overflowing the forlorn receptacles it was intended for. And then there is the shit. A warning to those hoofing it about the streets and alleys of Marseilles, do not wear opened toed shoes and always keep one eye to the ground. The amount of dog scat is, well, impressive. It did not seem as if there were enough dogs in the city to generate the mother load of excrement that adorns the avenues.
The day of our first jaunt through Marseilles we awoke to the news that the US had successfully assassinated the evil Osama Bin Ladan. My first thought was regarding how this would affect my travel plans. The second was that we were getting dropped off in Marseilles in the predominantly Muslim section of town. The Arabic community here serves a dual function; they do the underpaid “Mexican” jobs we have in the United States while also having a similar disdain that is placed upon the African American community. It is a heavy load to bear. Suffice to say, being a fat American I stand out like the proverbial raisin in the sugar bowl and this caused me a bit of concern regarding a personal jihad on my pasty ass. As in America (and probably anywhere else) it is pointless to listen to other people’s opinions regarding certain matters. Nobody seemed to notice us as we walked through their neighborhood, except for the young children trying to beg a couple Euros off us. I will say this about the panhandlers of Marseilles; they are much less intrusive but more effective then in America. The silently supplicating woman is definitely more powerful then the guy who reeks of malt liquor and drools on you.
We made our way to the Vieux Port where many personal pleasure boats lay anchor. It has, for lack of a better word, a board walk which runs along either side of the port with an array of restaurants serving overpriced food and drink. In the distance you can see atop perhaps the highest peak in Marseilles the Notre Dame church with the Virgin Mary and “kid”. I say “kid” because after some deliberation my traveling companion and I decided that there is a reason they make tourist trams to tour the city and opted to take one. Our pre-recorded tour guide, fluent in French, German, and English, pointed out some important historical facts of the area and noted the statue of “Mary and Kid”.
Marseilles is very beautiful. The architecture is quite stunning especially when you realize that there has been civilization here for thousands of years. As we ascend the roads to the church, through paths etched through limestone long before Plymouth rock was official, we look out to islands inhabited by castles and prisons, the setting for “The Count of Monte Cristo”. We finally wind our way up to the church and all its majesty. I find it quite moving while my cohort makes some sacrilegious gesticulations by the holy water in the basilica. Fortunately I was standing between her and the 200 year old woman weeping and lighting candles and I didn’t need throw her off the mountain as penance, as much as I may have wanted to. Back down the mountain in our little train, it is now time to eat.
To eat, this why I came to France. Yes, charming villas, museums of legends, local color, etc. No, to eat. The café culture of France is prolific, with outdoor seating spilling out to the streets in every direction. Public workers and bourgeoisie bohemians (bobos) sitting side-by-side, resolutely smoking and quaffing the local wines. We walked through a neighborhood well concentrated with restaurants until we found one slightly farther from the street accordion player. The accordion, while a formidable instrument, is not one that serves as great background music for a conversation when played amplified. We found a restaurant with a three-course prix-fixe for 19.5 euros and one of the few not serving bouillabaisse. While Marseilles has the claim to fame of being the Mecca of the dish our host informed us that unless you see fish carcasses these days it is very likely to have come out of a bag. It seems, so far, that much of what Americans idolize and idealize about French cuisine is disappearing at an unfortunately rapid rate.
We settle in at 29 Place aux Huiles, ready for some sustenance. Jean greets us, stating firmly, when we explain in sad broken French that we don’t really speak the language that well, that “no one is perfect”. As Marianne has been feeding us quite thoroughly since our arrival with copious amounts of cheese, pate, vegetables and assorted delectables we decided to split the prix-fixe, knowing the evening is sure to be another Olympian repast.
“My poor American friends,” Jean says “I will take up a collection for you. I’ll call Barak.”
Putting his blue tooth in his ear as he walks back inside the restaurant he begins “calling”.
“Barak, hey it’s me Jean. I have some Americans here, yeah, they can’t afford to eat, only to drink.”
Mid-forties, tall, lean, bespectacled, and goateed Jean was the consummate picture of the French waiter. He knew it too. With the international stereotype of this character well known he did his best to oblige us with a French dining experience that exists primarily in movies. As he solidly put down a fork or plate he would look over his glasses at us with mock disdain, roll his eyes and walk away. Our conversations usually ended with a sharp jab at us as we played the part of the naïve Americans. Towards the end of the meal he came out of character and made some suggestions for our stay. Very adept at his job we could see him sizing up each table, domestic or foreign, and being what they wanted him to be for their experience. The people of Marseilles have a reputation in France for being lackadaisical, looking to work as little as possible and enjoy the Provencal sun as much as possible. It would take much more time to deem whether this is an accurate portrayal of the citizenry but from watching Jean in action he definitely breaks many stereotypes, neither an ostentatious maître d' nor an idle layabout.
As our food arrived we realized our decision was the right one as each course was fairly substantial and had we each ordered the meal we would have been in rough shape by the end of the day. We began with a duo of rabbit; rillettes and a sort of rabbit porchetta, boned and rolled in its skin. This came with a salad of microgreens and fresh vegetables. Second was a dourade, or sea bream, fillet, perfectly sautéed, served with roasted tomatoes and fennel, adorned with a light aioli. To finish, an interesting take on a tiramisu concept. A parfait of mocha sabayon, sweetened and whipped mascarpone, and chocolate cake crumbs.
The meal was well executed and quite delicious. We enjoyed it with two bottles of rosé, the first a recommendation by Jean, lower in price but quite good, crisp and light. For the second we chose a slightly more expensive bottle, a fuller body than the first with more fruit yet not sweeter. Provence is renowned for its rosé although Pascal informed us later that it is not his favorite wine to drink and that it is typically a “tourist” wine. Even for Parisians who come here Provence means rosé, though, and the cafés do a hefty business in its commerce. Upon perusing the local supermarket it seems, unlike Pascal, many locals here take quite a fancy to it as well.
