Something's fishy

Marseille. City of boats. City of angry French protestors. City of bouillabaisse. I was there as part of my European adventure, ready to discover the sun-filled wonder of southern France and the Mediterranean.

I left the train station, eager to avoid the stowaway gypsies from Paris, my nostrils enjoying the sea air. I found my hostel, dumped my bags and headed out to find lunch.

All around the port there were restaurants with blackboards advertising bouillabaisse. I consulted my guidebook to find out what this local delicacy might be and found, to my pescatarian delight, that it is a traditional fish stew, native to Marseille.

Ignoring the 30 euro price tag, I decided that fate had intervened, and I must eat bouillabaisse for lunch. I chose a little cafe, and sat myself down at a table for one, under the white umbrellas. There was no need for a menu, I knew what I wanted.

Now I must confess that my French isn't all that flash. I spent my time in France apologising that "Je parle francais comme un vache espagnol" (I speak French like a Spanish cow). So when the waitress asked if I was sure I wanted bouillabaisse, I replied enthusiastically that yes, I like fish!

Without giving me a clue as to the fishy trauma that I was getting myself into, the waitress brought out a bowl, bread, garlic, some kind of mayonnaise and butter. After some time (which I had expected seeing as bouillabaisse is a traditional dish and we all know traditional things take a while to cook), she returned with a large cauldron-style pot and ladled me some soup. Mmm mmm. I was so hungry by this time that I didn't listen properly to her comment about signalling when I wanted more.

I finished the bowl of deliciously rich soup, sopping it up with buttered bread and dipping it in the rather odd mayonnaise. I nodded to the waitress.

To my surprise she didn't return with the cauldron but with a little round table, placing it next to my table. How odd.

She disappeared again. When she returned I realised the gravity of my mistake. The waitress carried a large metal platter, upon which was not only five whole fish, but mussels, potatoes, tomatoes and lettuce too. That explained the table and the 30 euro price tag. Mortified, I attempted to politely eat as much as humanly possible, curing myself of any future need to eat fish.

I left, stuffed with fish and having left 95% of my meal on my second table, thinking to myself - I'll never forget the day that I ate bouillabaisse!