French cowboys.

My days usually open and close with the smell of baking. The variation lies more in the in between. Today I was off to the Camargue, for canals and cowboys. I lunched in Aigues-Mortes, a fortress town (population some 7,000) on the coast, whose 1 1/2 kilometers of well-preserved rampart walls date from the 13th century. Aigues-Mortes is tucked just into the western edge of the Camargue, which is the largest river delta in Europe, with nearly 1000 square kilometers. The town's name means dead waters, and is derived from the Occitan: Aigas Mòrtas.When Aigues-Mortes was built, it was the only mediterranean port France had. The Crusaders left from here, using maritime channels to make their way out to sea.To imagine where I was this bright afternoon, picture big sky, man-made canals cutting through the marshland, lakes, vineyards, rice fields and sea salt harvesting, as the water here is briny. Add wind. A lot of it.In the vast natural refuge of Camargue, recognized by UNESCO as a World Heritage Site, wetlands are home to flocks of flamingo (and some 400 other bird species).

All across the rest of Camargue you find the intrepid, all-weather white Camargue horses (who aren't born white!), and the dark bulls, smaller than their Spanish cousins, with distinctively vertical horns. The corrida culture is alive and well in the south of France, having begun in the late 1600s, but there are significant variations. As I understand it, perhaps the biggest difference: the bulls aren't killed, and lead "careers" that can go on a decade before being put out to pasture. In order not to exhaust the animal, the fights are bound by time limits and strict rules, but remain garlanded with arcane tradition and terminology that is as ornate as the brocade worn by the matador. My caveat: I have yet to attend a French corrida. Against my better judgment, I went to a corrida in Madrid years ago. I was pretty dismayed by the experience. For the record, I neither see nor feel what Hemingway experienced; closer to home, my father ran with the bulls in Pamplona, at the festival of San Fermín, long before there were organized tours. It all leaves me cold: I always end up siding with the bulls, even if the men do cut a fine figure.

But today's manade (ranch) visit was simply about the periodic minuets that occur between the visibly eager, surefooted white horses and fleet black bulls. The work is fast, exciting and dangerous. Even more risky are the organized local bull games, such as the course libre (free race), also known as the course Camarguaise. (Photo below taken from the Arles & Camargue Guide). On the posters, it is the name of the bulls that are listed, mind you, rather than the raseteurs (those foolhardy few, who, dressed in pure white, try to "graze" the bull's head and remove an attached ribbon...). Today, at any rate, I came away with more respect for the French cowboy. Home before dusk, I just had time to cobble together dinner and dessert, a buttery matter of apple, candied ginger and clove on a base of pate feuilletée (puff pastry). This requires somewhat less courage to attack.

On the edge of the Mediterranean.

I had to go to Marseille. Note the verb choice. Passport issues, closest possible city bla bla bla. While I've always been curious about this sprawling polyglot port, it isn't the ubiquitous tourist stop. The locals have a particular reputation across France--ask any French citizen. The lemon-yellow, used Renault Kangoo I bought when I moved to the blue mountains of the Cévennes had Marseille plates at first, for which I was regularly teased by the locals, because in some ways, Marseille is the city people love to disdain.

Marseille (population, some 1.7 million) has long been independent-minded, but it has also been so outright rebellious that it has been forcibly reined in by Paris--a number of times. Louis XIV took it by force, turning the port cannons around from their normal positions facing the sea and pointing them inward on the uppity citizenry. Even as recently as 1936 Marseille has been taken over by the state in an explosive corruption scandal.
At the same time there has long been a fascination with the port. Today, the most successful soap opera on French television, Plus Belle La Vie, is based in Marseille. You can buy anything from baby bibs and pens to christmas ornaments, all emblazoned with the show's logo... And of course there's Ligue 1 football/soccer (Olympique de Marseille, or l'OM, just slaughtered the Languedoc Roussillon team on Wednesday, if you care to know).

A recent article in the newspaper Le Monde by François Thomazeau (best known for his Marseilles-based detective stories) discussed Marseille's membership in the Cities On The Edge campaign--as well as Marseille's 2013 coronation as a European City of Culture. (Liverpool was a City of Culture in 2008, and Istanbul is 2010's City). Along with the five other often-maligned port cities that make up the Cities On The Edge--Liverpool, Naples, Bremen, Gdansk and Istanbul--Marseille has chosen to play up its melting pot present, tumultuous past and sometimes louche reputation. The article, intriguing and worth a read, has since been translated online.
It is the oldest--the first--city of France, founded by the Greeks in 600 BC. It continued to serve as an essential hub for the Romans, who eventually simply took it over. Its strategic and economic importance have guaranteed it a continuously turbulent, fascinating history in the centuries since then. Already by the late 1700s, it is said that more than half its population came from somewhere else. Today, it remains in large measure defined by its colorful immigrant population, in good and not-so-good ways.
Still somewhat leaden from my on-going bout with bronchitis, I only stayed one day, long enough for me to see that like its most famous soup, the bouillabaisse, Marseille is certainly a heady mix of ingredients. (You can see this musically as well: it is the center of French (black) hip-hop, yet boasts a gorgeous old Opera, with highly regarded ballet and opera performances). I missed the big Provençal santon fair, though all the Christmas lights were still up and sparkling around the ship-filled Vieux Port (Old Port). But I admired the old architecture, caught the daily fish market in the Vieux Port, and even successfully ventured into the twice-a-year frenzy that is les soldes.
And yes, I had a (pricey) bouillabaisse for lunch, at Miramar, a rather stuffy culinary institution known for its defining bouillabaisse. The portions are brobdingnagian, better suited for a Goliath who has a thing for seafood. I amused myself counting nearby fur coats and designer sunglasses--kept on in the restaurant as well, natch--in between spoonfuls of steaming stew and broth-soaked croutons slathered with rouille (a whipped sauce made of olive oil, saffron, lots of garlic and chili). I wear leather shoes, carry a leather bag; who I am to point the finger at mink-wearers?

For dinner I went to the antithesis of Miramar. Behind the imposing town hall in the Vieux Port, there is a wide limestone terrace occupied solely by a large number of immense pots of olive trees in careful formation. Behind this pleasing sight you will find the small Café des Epices. And please, do find it if you are in Marseille. You can thank me later.

Photo from Cote Sud.

For less than half the cost of my lunch I ate more than twice as well, in the highly convivial, utterly relaxed atmosphere overseen by young chef and owner Arnaud Carton de Grammont. The menu changes regularly, but the formula remains the same: one generous amuse-bouche, followed by a choice of two starters, two main dishes, and two desserts. The chef warmly welcomes you and explains the day's offerings; the only difficulty is deciding which dish you will forsake.
My meal began with an airy cream of butternut squash, unexpectedly topped with intensely fragrant sautéed escargots and an ethereal cream of garlic. Having the choice between a chestnut risotto with its seared foie gras, and leeks in a coriander-inflected chicken bouillon, adroitly drizzled with white truffle oil and served with scallops a la plancha, I opted for the latter. It was a nuanced seduction, but the main course really stole the show. I went with pollock (akin to cod) roasted in the crispy skin, served with slowly braised fennel and astonishingly delicious, sweet stewed red cabbage, or compote de choux rouge.

Associating squash and snail is surprising enough, but white fish and red cabbage seems nearly anathemy at first blush. But oh, how it worked beautifully. That was the best tasting fish I'd had in years. I struggled not to get closer to his handkerchief-sized, open kitchen to find out just how he made that magnificent, ruby-colored compote. I struggled not to ask when he left his busy kitchen to check, twice, to see whether I was happy with my meal. It is the first time I have ever really enjoyed red cabbage. Why, oh why didn't I ask?

Dessert was a thick slice of pineapple that had been cooked for twelve hours in spices yet retained a fresh lightness, which was balanced by a serving of a frothy, complex sorbet made from the pineapple core, rendered non-fibrous somehow.
As you can see, I was able to end a coughing- and bureaucracy-filled day quite nicely, walking past the still waters of the Vieux Port, my cheeks still glowing from animated conversation with fellow diners, excellent food and the general wonderfulness of the world.
The success of Carton de Grammont's casual bistro is not accidental, being built upon his experience in a series of Michelin-starred restaurants, and his work and travel as far afield as Uruguay. His restaurant is in the vanguard of a wave of fresh restaurants gastronomiques, as Alexander Lobrano well illustrates in France Today online ("Marseille: Beyond Bouillabaisse", December 7, 2009). You can find the coordinates and reviews for the Café des Epices in the online Michelin guide here.

Cassidaine by day.

I've just spent a lovely stretch of time on the Côte d'Azur. I've great affection for the Côte d'Azur--of yore. That sepia notion looms large: a stunning coastline, peppered with impossibly charming villages which were the sun-filled, color-drenched locus of artists, writers, royalty and movie stars. This is the Côte d'Azur of say, some 30 or 40 years ago, before gaudy resort over-development and summer gridlock reared their ugly heads, like the advance guard of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Or something like that.

Luckily, beyond St. Tropez, Cannes, Nice and Monaco, there do remain a few (relatively) idyllic exceptions today. One is Cassis.

On the western-most border of the French Riviera, Cassis is a village of about 8,000 residents tucked into an inlet some 20 miles from Marseille. The beautiful white cliffs richly in evidence here have been quarried since antiquity, yielding a limestone used, among other things, for the base of New York's Statue of Liberty. I visited the nearby calanques, or coastal inlets; the tour's worth the ticket queue at sultry noon. The untenanted little bays and coves, with their imposing, cathedral-like cliffs and outcroppings (and a million plus visitors per year) still manage to seem somehow secret, serene and wild. The calanques are slated to become part of a national park in 2010, so the number of visitors (on foot, by bike, and boat) and attendant regulations are bound to increase. Visit soon if you can, and rent a kayak while you're at it.

As for Cassis itself, it is a low-key charmer of a port village, with creamy limestone-inlaid streets, gurgling fountains, aqua-hued Vespas, and laundry fluttering from windows. While outside of town you do have a one or two high-end options, the laid-back hotels in the village itself range from fairly spartan to comfortable but basic; this does impact the number of people who visit. I was concerned about the hordes of mid-August, but my worry was needless: while vibrantly busy, the village isn't overwhelmed, and the locals are friendly. I explored the large open air market, where I spotted some Reine-Claudes next to Provencal apricots. (Reine-Claudes grow in my garden, and are a tart, mouth-filling delight; they remain green, even when lusciously ripe, and are my favorite kind of plum, whether eaten out of the hand, or cooked. I digress).

The range of olives on display--purple, black, pink as well as green--were a delight (I sampled too!), as were the types and quantities of savon de Marseille, itself made from olive oil.

There were crafts, jewelry, summer frocks, and pottery on tempting display. I found myself out in the port itself, scrubbed nearly clean of its fishing past and reinvented as a starting point for leisure whether by yacht or rowboat. I also stumbled onto l'Eau de Cassis, in business since 1851. My home smells the lovelier for it (I left with Au Coin du Feu).

Of course, all this summer exploring leaves a girl quite thirsty; fortunately for me, in Cassis, there are certainly bars and restaurants enough.

I can recommend a stop at friendly local landmark Nino (a reservation may be necessary). Speaking of thirst, I'm off to refill my gin and tonic. I'll fill you in on the nightlife in Cassis in the next entry...