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could, and darted back again to eat them in obscurity. The liquor drained away through the heather stalks to be soaked up by the mud floor. That woman’s resources were poor, her skills undeveloped, in such circumstances of life; but the method of cooking the stew was the same as the one used by any Marseillais fisherman to make his Bouillabaisse. The result could have been perfectly edible, if the fish hadn’t been overcooked, and if there had been plenty of butter to eat with it.

In other words, it is the clemency of nature plus the skill of the cook which makes everyone seek out Bouillabaisse, Bourride or Cacciucco rather than tatties an’ herrin’. Another sad truth about such dishes is that they cannot be reproduced elsewhere, not satisfactorily. Even if by some magic, you could acquire a spiny and beautiful rascasse (scorpionfish), always claimed to be the key fish of Bouillabaisse, along with the other proper ingredients, the results in Manchester or Milwaukee can never come up to the real thing in Marseilles. Cooking – thank heavens – still knows this particular disillusionment, in spite of the universal sameness of frozen food. In the autumn I always bring back tomatoes from France, olive oil, sea salt, fresh basil, yet the tomato salad I make in Wiltshire never tastes the same as it did when I used the same ingredients in France two days earlier. If you do not believe me, reflect on the unsuccessful efforts made to produce Scotch whisky outside Scotland.

Of course there is no reason why you shouldn’t use the recipes for your own entertainment and this book would be incomplete without it. But to avoid disillusion, remember the uniqueness of local food when you visit an inland restaurant far from France, which has Bouillabaisse on the menu, at a reverential price.

Bourride and Cacciucco are less sacrosanct. They, after all, were not ‘discovered’ by Prosper Merimée, the French writer who was a friend of Napoleon III. Bouillabaisse comes into his Colomba (1840). Cookery writers have since tried to give it a pedigree, and have traced it, with a considerable number of gaps, back to a recipe given by the Roman gastronome Apicius for scorpionfish. For a longer discussion of Bouillabaisse, turn to The French at Table by Raymond Oliver, or to Elizabeth David’s French Provincial Cooking. She gives two excellent recipes; here is a third, from a Marseilles restaurant, the Brasserie des Catalans:

BOUILLABAISSE

The interesting thing about Bouillabaisse and Bourride is that the fish is removed from the soup, but served with it; and the enrichment is provided by large bowls of ailloli and rouille. The bread is toasted, then fried in olive oil, and finally rubbed with garlic before being put into a basket for the table. As the soup itself doesn’t take long to cook, prepare all the accompanying dishes first.

Use the following kinds of fish: monkfish, conger eel, John Dory, weaver, gurnard, crawfish or spiny lobster, Dublin Bay prawns, mussels (if prawns are not available).

Serves 6–8

3¼ kg (6½ lb) fresh fish

125 g (4 oz) olive oil

2 large onions, chopped

white part of 2 leeks, chopped

4–6 cloves garlic

2 huge tomatoes, peeled and chopped

parsley, fennel

1 small chilli

good pinch of saffron filaments

cayenne pepper, salt

4 potatoes, sliced

3 litres (5 pt) water, warm

12 slices French bread, toasted lightly in the oven, fried in olive oil and rubbed with garlic

bowl of rouille*

bowl of ailloli*

Sort out the fish and clean them. Put oil, vegetables (except potatoes), herbs, and seasonings into a large pot. Add the thickest fish (conger, monkfish) on top of the vegetables, and top with slices of potato. Pour on the water, bring to the boil and boil hard (this enables the water and oil to thicken together). After 5 minutes add the crawfish. After another 5 minutes add the Dublin Bay prawns, and John Dory. After another 5 minutes add the rest of the fish, and the mussels if you are not using Dublin Bay prawns. Boil 4–5 minutes.

Remove fish and potatoes