The Real Marseille

It was 2004 and we were stuck in stop-and-go traffic on an elevated freeway above Marseille. I vowed never to return.

Some twenty-three years later, while cooking dinner one evening, I heard Anthony Bourdain going on and on about the city on his CNN Parts Unknown show. I like to play repeats of his old shows while cooking, it beats the news.

“If you’ve been to France, chances are you haven’t been here… France’s second-largest city, the oldest city in France. It sits right by the Mediterranean, the food is famously good. Yet it’s a victim of bad reputation, bad history. Marseille. As it turns out, exactly the kind of place I like.”

Carrie and I had a winery cruise coming up, sailing down the Saône and Rhône rivers. I usually try to tack on extra travel days for wandering around on our own, but with one kid graduating high school and the other finishing college shortly after we returned, Carrie made it clear this would be a quick trip. I managed to negotiate one extra day in Marseille before flying home.

We met our guide, Severine from Culinary Backstreets, on the steps of the old train station. The area near the lion statue smelled like urine and we were approached by two different people asking for money before we’d even finished our hellos.

Had we made a mistake?

Our first stop was at a market in an Armenian neighborhood. I remember thinking this was just a cute little stop before we got to the “real” Marseille. Then an Armenian bakery introduced us to warm Zhingyalov Hats, fresh out of the oven and loaded with greens and herbs. My taste buds soared. Lahmacun (minced meat flatbread) was delicious, and the salty, intensely flavored Basturma was wild. My head was spinning with flavors and my inability to spell any of these names.

On to a “proper” French bakery, L’Atelier, where a man from Senegal was schlepping bread for pizzas, croissants, and everything else. It was so hot inside and when the roll-up door lifted with music pumping, you could see his floured footprints leading across the street to the retail shop. I was too slow with my camera to capture him stopping traffic while carrying freshly baked baguettes. The croissant he made was flaky inside with the perfect crunch outside, the best I had ever had.

Next we visited Argonautes market. Unassuming from the outside, inside it held an amazing collection of high-end foods. We were seated with glasses of Vermentino from Domaine d’Eole, located just south of Avignon in Provence. It was fresh, crisp, and low in alcohol. (I thought this varietal was called Rolle in Provence and Vermentino was the Italian name. We actually made an “orange” Vermentino with skin contact a couple years back that turned out quite nice.) Alongside it came Brousse du Rove, a soft very fresh goat cheese from Provence that somehow didn’t taste gamey like goat cheese at all.

Then we had to run. Well, fast walk to lunch.

Wait! We’re having lunch too?

We rushed to La Boîte à Sardine (no reservations, just get there before the tables fill). It’s decorated like a cliché over-the-top seafood joint, but somehow it’s charming, even with life vests used as back rests. The owner puts on a show with his chalkboard menus. Monkfish? Yes please. I hadn’t had it since Croatia last year. It was good, but the liver from the fish was even better. Shredded skate made an amazing salad on arugula, and their take on Tunisian fricassé was fantastic. We were served an unassuming house white that worked surprisingly well with everything.

Severine insisted we finish lunch even though we were all overly full already. The owner would be angry if we didn’t, she said. We obliged, then walked a short distance to a café in the middle of the street with a view of a Neo-Gothic cathedral. There we had espresso paired with desserts, including a Middle Eastern pastry fragrant with orange blossom water. By this point my note-taking had completely fallen apart.

Next came an Algerian market overflowing with every spice imaginable, followed by an Algerian restaurant with three more dishes I’d never heard of. Spicy harissa softened beautifully by sweet mint tea.

Oh my gosh, would it ever end?

Finally, we walked to the port and closed the tour with a glass of pastis, the anise-flavored drink that seems to fuel half the city.

That cute Armenian neighborhood at the beginning wasn’t a stop on the way to the “real” Marseille. It was the real Marseille. The city is built from people who arrived from all around the Mediterranean. If I had paid closer attention to Bourdain, I would have heard him say it: “Marseille was once the hub, the rough-and-tumble principal port for France’s colonies such as Tunisia, Morocco and Algeria. As a result, the sights and smells of Africa permeate the city.”

Somewhere along the way I started imagining North African spices showing up at future winery events back home, paired alongside our Rhône-style wines.

Later, while reminiscing our tour, Carrie even accidentally called it Morocco. Marseille would probably take that as a compliment.

We didn’t even get to the famous bouillabaisse. We’ll be back.

Josh Bendick,
Co-Winemaker