Les Panisses

One of the best nibbles to be had at apéro time in Provence are panisses. These salty little treats are made from a chickpea-based dough, sold in rolls around 25cm long and probably around 12cm diameter. They are sliced into thin discs, deep-fried and sprinkled with sea salt, and served plain or spread with tapenade. 

The consumption of panisses is not limited to aperitifs though; they are sold hot in paper bags by the dozen, to be eaten like chips in the UK. They also appear atop many salads in restaurants in and around Marseille, and as far afield as Nice. Panisses are thought to originate from the little fishing village of L'Estaque, just outside of Marseille, to the west. Takeaway stalls do a roaring trade all along the portside there, including one of the most famous, Chez Magali.

The port at L'Estaque

Along with panisses, the stalls in l'Estaque also sell chichis, an enormous dessert made from donut batter, which is rolled into a sausage, flattened, deep-fried and served with sugar or chocolate sauce. Chichi has become a provencal slang word for male genitalia, and the stall-holders never cease to get an innuendo in when handing you a freshly-fried chichi.

L’apéro

Alcohol is without a doubt one of the main food groups in Provence. That said, the Provencal diet has quite a lot of food groups...

One of the most sociable times of the day in Provence, however, begins by some unspoken unanimous gut feeling amongst the locals at around 6pm. The heure de l'apéro (short for apéritif) is much, much more than just a simple pre-dinner glass of wine whilst something boils away on the stove. It's a time to sit with family, friends and children, share quelques verres and an array of tapas-style nibbles to get the appetite going, and most importantly to talk. It's a time for sharing the stress of your day, or bemoaning the latest of the Olympique de Marseille's losses on the football pitch, and then for letting those worries melt away in the company of loved ones (and a glass or five of something strong).

Drinks consumed at apéro time include (obviously, predictably?) pastis, but also whisky, beer, and panaché (a lemonade and beer mixture much like shandy) for men, and sweet muscat wine or chilled glasses of rosé served with ice cubes for ladies... The pregnant and teetotal are spoiled with interesting and different fruit juices, often from local producers, and those on a diet are treated to a simple Perrier citron. 

It is unthinkable to invite friends over for an apéro without preparing nibbles. And apéro nibbles are almost a meal in their own right. Olives, nuts, toasts with tapenade (an olive and anchovy paste), crudités to dip into anchoiade (a strong, salty anchovy dip), cubes of cheese, small savory pastries, saucisson, radishes with curls of butter, whole pizzas cut into thin slices, tiny goats cheese dripping with olive oil, toasted brioche with slices of foie gras and sea salt, cherry tomatoes fresh from the vegetable patch... The list is endless, but so seems your appetite when bowls of these delicious bite-sized treats are laid out before you. Bars throughout the region produce little plastic bowls or terracotta dishes of these wonders - at no extra cost - to amuse the bouche whilst tables are cleared and laid for dinner.

L'heure de l'apéro is a great time for storytelling, or simply listening. It is the perfect forum for the Provencal expert - that guy in the village bar who seems to know everything about everything, and is even surer of his opinion when pastis glasses are being thrust into his hands by avid listeners. Want to know the best restaurant in town? He's eaten at them all, and will tell you where to get the best daube provencale. Need a new pair of shoes? He knows where you can get a deal, and where you'll be ripped off. Want to go truffle hunting? He knows a man selling a blind pig with a fabulous nose. Not sure who to vote for in the next mayoral election? His cousin's girlfriend's brother is running, but he'll convince you not to vote for him.
Every bar has one, and the opinions really get flowing an hour or so into apéro time. Take everything he says with several pinches of salt, or simply get sozzled enough not to remember what he said the next day. But you will laugh and laugh, perhaps get into an argument with him, and finish the evening by settling down to that great daube together, sharing a bottle of red to wash all those pastis down.

Le poisson

Provence's southern border is the salty, glittering mediterranean sea, and so it is unsurprising that fish and seafood play essential roles in the Provencal diet.

Daily or weekly fish markets are a common sight, and fishing forms a significant part of the local economy. Perhaps the most famous market is that of Marseille's old port, where the fish arrive on tiny boats to slip and slide their way into large trays, and are sold within seconds. It doesn't get much fresher than that.



And all sorts of interesting and unusual creatures can be found on those markets - shell fish, urchins, rock fish, oysters by the hundred... And you can be sure that there will be an army of mamies hovering like seagulls, ready to elbow you out of the way for the freshest catch.

There are countless fish and seafood recipes that I could mention here, but I cannot realistically introduce you to fish in Provence without talking about two fantastic dishes: bouillabaisse and aïoli.

Bouillabaisse is a wonderfully rich fish soup, garnished with potatoes, vegetables, toasts with a garlic and safran mayonnaise, and of course a magnificent selection of fresh fish and sea food. I have heard many stories about the origins of bouillabaisse, and the meanings of the name of this dish itself. My favourite, which may or may not be true, is that the bouillabaisse was originally a peasant dish, for fishermen and their families, made by boiling all the ugly, misshapen creatures caught but not sold that day, in the bottom of a barrel, with some veg thrown in. The fishmonger who told me this tale also reliably(??) informed me that the word bouillabaisse is a combination of two old Occitan words, meaning "boil in the bottom". I like this story a lot, mainly because it is true that the rock fish traditionally used in the soup are fantastically ugly things that you would never want to find steamed, whole, on your plate. Whatever its origins, bouillabaisse is one of the most famous and most expensive dishes in France, and there are several great places to eat it in and around Marseille. Having only tasted it once, albeit it in one of the most famous bouillabaisse restaurants in town, I would not dare to make any suggestions as to where to go. But I will offer one bit of advice - the portions are so vast; don't eat for 24 hours before you have bouillabaisse!

Aïoli, however, is a much more affordable, every day dish which I personally appreciate just as much as a 100 euro bouillabaisse. It consists of a fiercy garlicy mayonnaise (the aïoli) which accompanies a plate of simple tastes. These usually include desalted salt cod, boiled in unseasoned water, a selection of boiled vegetables (carrots, courgettes, potatoes, beetroot, green beans...), boiled eggs and, if you're lucky, bulots (sea snails). This selection of delights, dipped into the mayonnaise, often grace the lunch specials menu in Provencal restaurants on a Friday, and early Friday morning chefs can be seen whipping up enormous bowls of yellowy, garlicy dips.

Aioli is relatively simple to make - all you need to do is crush up plenty of garlic in a pestle and mortar, to which you add egg yolks. Once nicely whisked, slowly drizzle in olive oil, whisking continuously, until the mayonnaise begins to form.

Or you could just cheat and buy it in a jar, like I do!







Le marché

One of the main reasons that I chose to relocate from the UK to the South of France was (predictably?) for the food. The quality of the local produce here is beyond incredible; who knew that simple things like tomatoes could taste so fabulous?

Supermarket shopping is, unfortunately, not what it used to be in France. The credit crunch (la crise) has driven prices up and quality down, and so to get real top-notch nosh, I go to my local market on a Sunday morning. From the early hours of the morning, sprightly local farmers and their bleary eyed teenage assistants set up stalls around the town square, and by 8am cups of coffee from the nearby café are being handed from one grubby palm to the next in exchange for gossip.

The sights and smells of the market are just like no other thing I have experienced. Every two or three meters, your senses are invaded by a new sensation - roasting chickens, prawns bubbling away in giant paellas, melons freshly sliced open, tangy young goat's cheeses, vats of olives and garlic large enough to fit a grown man, freshly cured sausages... And all laid out for you to touch, smell and taste before you buy.

And behind each display stands César, or Manon, or Marcel, all brown as berries from a lifetime of working in the sun, and brimming with advice, recipes, and chit-chat.

Perhaps the best stall-holder that have come across was a woman selling fresh cheeses, coated with pepper corns, tiny slivers of walnut or garlicy tapenade - let's call her Margot. Margot was in her late 60s, and cared very little for cheese, in fact. She told me that her husband had invested in two goats on the day of his retirement, and set about making dairy products. Very quickly, he increased his flock and cheese-making become his number one activity. At first, Margot relished in the peace and quiet whilst her husband milked and tended to his goats. But lately, she told me, he seemed to spend more time talking to his goats than to his wife, and so she had decided to sell her husband's cheeses on the market, not to make money, but to hold a conversation longer than "Tu vas où?" - "Voir les chèvres".  I've since noticed that each customer stays a few extra minutes with Margot and her cheeses, listening sympathetically to tales of her husband and his adventures in the dairy world. And if you listen long enough, she'll pop a couple of extra cheeses in your basket, just to tide you over till next week...