What’s your favourite dish? If you were asked to choose your “last supper”, what would it be? For me, I would likely choose that classic Provençal seafood stew, bouillabaisse. I still keep, tucked into a Roux Brothers cookery book (that I see from the inner leaf came from my mum in Christmas 1988), a cut-out recipe for bouillabaisse that I have returned to many times over the years. My version is probably not authentic (to be so, it must apparently contain what the French call “rascasse” – i.e. scorpionfish – which tends not to be available at the Morrisons fish counter) but they say that recipes vary from family to family in Marseille anyway. At any rate, it’s a deeply rich and satisfying dish, and it goes down a treat. Like many a classic French dish (think pot au feu, cassoulet, bœuf bourguignon…) bouillabaisse has a noble charm to it and there’s a giant of 19th century literature, William Makepeace Thackeray, who agrees with me.
You may know of William Thackeray from his classic novel, Vanity Fair, but he was also responsible for many an amusing verse. He was, by all accounts, a really funny guy; Trollope said of him: “he rarely uttered a word, either with his pen or his mouth, in which there was not an intention to reach our sense of humour”. This poem, The Ballad of the Bouillabaisse, from his 1855 collection of verse, Ballads, is typical: a wonderfully crafted and charming tribute to the noble dish, of which Thackeray was clearly a fan from his many years residing in Paris.
When one day I am next in Paris, or Marseille, I’d like to think I might find an establishment suitably similar to that conjured up in Thackeray’s poem, find a table in a nook, and order a steaming bowl of bouillabaisse and a bottle of “the Chambertin with yellow seal”. For, as Thackeray says, “true philosophers…should love good victuals and good drinks”. Failing the realisation of that dream, however, I still have my trusty old recipe.
Read the poem below as you (here’s a treat!) listen to your blogger reciting the poem whilst backed by some glorious French accordion music. Best enjoyed when hungry…
A street there is in Paris famous,
For which no rhyme our language yields,
Rue Neuve des petits Champs its name is—
The New Street of the Little Fields;
And here ’s an inn, not rich and splendid,
But still in comfortable case—
The which in youth I oft attended,
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.
This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is—
A sort of soup, or broth, or brew,
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,
That Greenwich never could outdo;
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffern,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace;
All these you eat at Terrés tavern,
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.
Indeed, a rich and savory stew ’t is;
And true philosophers, methinks,
Who love all sorts of natural beauties,
Should love good victuals and good drinks.
And Cordelier or Benedictine
Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace,
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting,
Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.
I wonder if the house still there is?
Yes, here the lamp is as before;
The smiling, red-cheeked écaillère is
Still opening oysters at the door.
Is Terré still alive and able?
I recollect his droll grimace
He’d come and smile before your table,
And hop’d you lik’d your Bouillabaisse.
We enter; nothing’s changed or older.
“How’s Monsieur Terré, waiter, pray?”
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder;—
“Monsieur is dead this many a day.”
“It is the lot of saint and sinner.
So honest Terré ’s run his race!”
“What will Monsieur require for dinner?”
“Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?
“Oh, oui, Monsieur,” ’s the waiter’s answer;
“Quel vin Monsieur désire-t-il?”
“Tell me a good one.” “That I can, sir;
The Chambertin with yellow seal.”
“So Terré’s gone,” I say and sink in
My old accustom’d corner-place;
“He’s done with feasting and with drinking,
With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse.”
My old accustom’d corner here is—
The table still is in the nook;
Ah! vanish’d many a busy year is,
This well-known chair since last I took.
When first I saw ye, Cari luoghi,
I’d scarce a beard upon my face,
And now a grizzled, grim old fogy,
I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.
Where are you, old companions trusty
Of early days, here met to dine?
Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty—
I’ll pledge them in the good old wine.
The kind old voices and old faces
My memory can quick retrace;
Around the board they take their places,
And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.
There’s Jack has made a wondrous marriage;
There’s laughing Tom is laughing yet;
There’s brave Augustus drives his carriage;
There’s poor old Fred in the Gazette;
On James’s head the grass is growing:
Good Lord! the world has wagg’d apace
Since here we set the Claret flowing,
And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.
Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!
I mind me of a time that’s gone,
When here I’d sit, as now I’m sitting,
In this same place—but not alone.
A fair young form was nestled near me,
A dear, dear face look’d fondly up,
And sweetly spoke and smil’d to cheer me.
—There’s no one now to share my cup.
I drink it as the Fates ordain it.
Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes;
Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it
In memory of dear old times.
Welcome the wine, whate’er the seal is;
And sit you down and say your grace
With thankful heart, whate’er the meal is.
—Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!
