A Bouillabaisse Ballard

Bouillabaisse is a traditional French provençal fish stew that originated in Marseille. It has in it at least 3 different kinds of fish – red rascasse, sea robin and European conger. It can also include bream, turbot, monkfish, mullet, hake, and it usually includes shellfish such as sea urchins, mussels, velvet crabs, spider crabs, or langoustine. The vegetables added are leeks, onions, tomato, celery and potatoes. The broth is traditionally served with a rouille (a mayonnaise made from garlic, olive oil, saffron and cayenne pepper, served on grilled slices of bread.

A bouillabaisse is different from other fish soups because of the use of bony Mediterranean fish, the selection of herbs and spices, and the fact that the fish are added one at a time, in the correct order. The dish’s name comes from the preparation in that correct order – the broth is boiled (bolh), then the different fish added one by one with the broth coming to the boil each time, then the heat is lowered (abaissa).

Recipes for bouillabaisse vary from family to family in Marseille and local restaurants dispute which is the most authentic recipe. The dish was created by Marseille fishermen who wanted to make a filling meal after returning to port, using the fish that was too bony to sell to restaurants and cooking them in a cauldron of sea water on a camp fire. In the 19th century, when Marseille became more prosperous, restaurants began serving the dish to customers, with fish stock instead of sea water, and the dish was soon being served in Paris.

In Roman mythology something very like it was fed to Vulcan by Venus. Fairly similar dishes are found in Portugal, Spain, Italy and Greece, but only with bouillabaisse is the broth served separately from the vegetables.

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, saffron,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace:
All these you eat at TERR’S tavern,
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.

Indeed, a rich and savory stew ’tis;
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-checked caillre is
Still opening oysters at the door.
Is TERR still alive and able?
I recollect his droll grimace:
He’d come and smile before your table,
And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.

We enter—nothing’s changed or older.
“How’s Monsieur TERR, 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 TERR’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 desire-t-il?”
“Tell me a good one.”—”That I can, Sir:
The Chambertin with yellow seal.”
“So TERR’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 wagged 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 looked fondly up,
And sweetly spoke and smiled 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!

Please enjoy the reading I made of this poem