Bouillabaisse

A ce plat phoceen, accompli sans defaut,
Indispensablement, meme, avant tous, il faut
la rascasse, poisson, certes, des plus vulgaires.
Isole sur un gril, on ne l’estime guere,
Mais dans la bouillabaisse aussitot il repand,
de Merveilleux parfums d’ou le success depend

To make this phocean dish without fault
Indispensably, even before all, you need
The rascasse, a vulgar fish, of course
Which on the grill we think little of
But in the bouillabaisse it exudes
A marvelous perfume on which success depends



Some people doodle in class. Others play snood, or surf the web, or chat on instant messenger. A small group might even drift away in the lewd embrace of the more salacious range of mental speculations. But me? Well, I dream about food. I dream about what to cook; and how I’m going to cook it; and where I’m getting the ingredients to cook whatever I’m going to cook; and how I’m going to eat it. I might dream about a specific food, or about all foods – in the morning about what I’m going to eat for lunch, after lunch what I’ll eat as a snack, and later what I should make for dinner. The only constant is that the moment the class demands less than all my attention, food is extremely likely to be the topic of my distracted meditations.

The weather has turned here in Cambridge, for the past week or so. Today, on the day of the Boston Marathon, we’re supposed to hit the eighties. Emerging from a grim winter of long nights and colder days, this to me says spring, in the loudest possible voice. And so, for the past week or so, I’ve spent my time in class thinking about bouillabaisse, the glorious champion of fish stews, one of the greatest contributions of provencal cuisine to the expanding waistlines of the world’s gluttons. How much fennel? Can bouillabaisse be made without the paradigmatic rascasse, as one of my friends points out – certainly the French writer Mery, quoted above, doesn’t think so? Which fishes should make the stock, and which the stew?

But one doesn’t need to engage in all this pretentious navel gazing in order to eat bouillabaisse. It’s a complicated soup, in some ways – I’ll grant you that. But in the end it’s just a soup – and it can be made with mostly simple ingredients, and in not much time. Nonetheless, people seem intimidated by recipes like this – whether it’s the prospect of the fish, or the straining, or the saffron, I’m not sure. So I’ll be a little more specific than usual, and perhaps I’ll expect a few more people to actually make this when they need something really magnificent to eat.

What you’ll want to do first is get some fish – among the three types most people start with, you should aim for those less rather than more oily (I’m not sure mackerel is the best idea, for instance). Most importantly get at least one whole fish, to get you the head and bones you need to make a flavorful stock. Of course, if you’ve been saving fish bones and shrimp shells in your freezer like any sensible home cook, you don’t need to worry about this – but if you know to do that, you hardly need to read my amateurish blabberings here. Manfully cut the head off the fish (you need at least two if you’re cooking for four people), and turn the heads, cracked open with a sharp knife, and all the fish bones you can find, in a large pot with olive oil, along with fennel, tomatoes, thyme, onion, garlic, and any other herbs you like, all chopped roughly. After just a few moments in the heat, add water and white wine to the pot, and bring all that to the boil. At some point, you’re going to have to add saffron to this mix – and no, don’t try to skimp and use turmeric in a desperate effort to get the same colour. You’re spending a lot, presumably, on the fish. Don’t ruin the effort by being cheap with what is essentially the main ingredient.

Once forty minutes pass the stock should be powerful, fragrant, and colorful, both from the saffron and the tomatoes. Strain the liquid, and set aside – as wonderful as fish brains are for the taste of the soup, you don’t want them in the finished product, though I don’t suppose I have to warn most people about that. Boil a few new potatoes in salted water – peeled. Given the fish base of the soup, you really only need two of the waxy tubers per person, but you’ll regret not making more to dip sinfully into the aioli, which you’ll make by grinding a few cloves of garlic in a mortar, adding an egg, and then whisking in either pure vegetable oil or a combination of fats including some olive oil until you have something that looks like mayonnaise. Finally, toast a few pieces of French bread rubbed with yet more garlic – and if you’re now thinking that this isn’t the most convenient of dishes for the busy professional, I will admit that even in France it’s usually saved for what I can only imagine are some mightily odiferous Sunday afternoons.

To serve the great soup, just pour the reserved stock back into a pan, and bring to a fast and roaring boil. Drop your fish into the stew, and once the base comes back to the boil, drop a little more saffron into the pot if you like (and can afford it), turn down the heat, and cover the pot. While the fish finishes cooking, put a couple of potatoes on the bottom of each person’s wide and shallow bowl, and make sure there’s plenty of toast on the table sitting near a large bowl of aioli and a few spoons. Once the fish seems done, place each person’s share in their bowl with the potatoes, pour the steaming broth over the fish, and take the bowls to what I hope are your hungry guests. It’s vital that at least some of the toast gets smeared with too much of the garlicky sauce and floated in the soup like a sort of crouton – the dish is meager, if fragrant, and the combination of the oil and the bread put the finishing touches on the meal. Add a chilled glass of good white wine, or, dare I say it, champagne, to the table, and you’ll have something that you can serve to anyone on any occasion. It’s true that the dish is expensive, and that it takes a little effort – and I’m aware that in Provence itself, those outside Marseille sometimes scoff at the dominance of bouillabaisse in the face of so many great fish stews. But I think the effort and the cost are worth it – and as long as your guests haven’t been to a small town in Provence, the secret of your creation’s competition is safe with me. So enjoy. I certainly did.