Marseille is a city waiting to be discovered for itself not for its fearsome reputation – notably among people who have never been there – as a hotbed of crime, corruption, drug-dealing and social conflict. And indeed, this grand old Mediterranean port of 800,000 people – second largest city in France – still grand in its post-industrial decay, has had its fair share of troubles, unemployment and a large and sometimes restless immigrant population, largely North African, languishing in the bleak northern suburbs.
But for a weekend break Marseille has to be one of the best kept secrets in Europe. It is not a question of coming here out of season (although July/August can be cruel months for a pale-skinned Celt like me): there is no specific tourist season (60 percent of visitors – apart from film crews making gangster movies – are here to see friends and relations). Tourists are so rare that the city will absorb you like a surrogate immigrant into this magical melting pot of Mediterranean and African cultures. Whatever else, Marseille is an authentic experience.
‘Marseille as the Mediterranean’s largest port has always had a transient population,’ says a Marseillaise. ‘Nobody here can claim five pure generations. My father was Russian, my mother from an old Marseille family but mixed with Armenians and Italians. The problem is that the Arabs don’t mix; we’re lucky not to have the same problems as Paris, Lyon, Avignon, Toulon… Marseille is only the ninth city in terms of crime!’
‘Il faut briser les fantomes,’ an acquaintance says. And indeed this visit is long overdue. A taxi driver is pathetically concerned that we should bear glad tidings of the city back home with us; a black waiter, whom I’d forgotten to tip in the bar, wishes me a cheerful bonjour when I meet him on the stairs with a breakfast tray. A lovely black waitress serves breakfast with a dreamy smile. And the most dangerous encounter back from the restaurant late at night is with a gabby old gent in a grey chalk-stripe suit who is trying to persuade his dog to cross the road. ‘I don’t walk him; he walks me,’ he says with a well-rehearsed smile.
I’d always thought of Marseille as a city where one changed trains with some trepidation, never daring to venture down the steep steps of the Gare St Charles. Marseille always seemed somehow different – and dangerous. And indeed, on my first fugitive visit in the mid-1980s, a Foreign Legion officer in a white kepi and sun-bleached khaki, had appeared right on cue in front of the serried lines of sleek orange TGVs. A back-lit poster showed legionnaires marching bravely off into the sunset.
Sitting outside in a café on the Quai des Belges, facing the Vieux Port, with a tall pastis and the sun coming over the yard arm of the city behind, the only frisson we feel is of imminent gastronomic enquiry. Three hours away from the gun-metal skies of northern France, the sky is pale blue, whitening towards the horizon, with thin strips of high cloud; the sea is a deep hypnotic blue. In December, January and February, you can expect cloudless days with temperatures in the ‘60s; except when the Mistral blows – an icy knife slicing down the Rhone valley; howling over roofs, through crevices in doors, and etching icicles into the hearts of respectable folk. In September it is still warm enough to swim, but without the ferocious summer heat.
For a weekend visit, it makes sense to stay in or around the Vieux Port. Looking out towards the sea from the Quai des Belges, down the long rectangle of the Vieux Port, you are looking west, not south as you might expect; which explains the marvelous sunsets over the sea; and the luminous quality of the strong light reflected from the white chalk cliffs north-east of the city along the long streets: a hard light of uncompromising brightness and shade. The city is a sepia print in the late afternoon. One side of La Canebiere (Marseille’s Champs Elysees, a vestige of its former glory, which leads inland from the center of the Quai des Belges) is bathed in yellow light, while on the other side it is already night.
Arriving by boat into the deep rectangle of the Vieux Port with the sun setting behind you can be almost a religious experience; like entering the dark recesses of a cathedral with the light shining behind you. While the most wonderful way to view the city and the sea is from the gardens of the Palais du Pharo (or the nearby Sofitel Hotel) on the southern promontory at the mouth of the harbor.
On the right side (north side) of the Vieux Port as you face the sea, behind the Quai du Port, are the narrow streets of Le Panier winding up the hillside – the oldest part of the city settled by the Greeks in 600 BC, followed by the Romans and latter-day immigrants from North Africa. Many of the fine 17th/18th century houses along the quay were razed by the Germans in 1944. But the baroque façade of the Hotel de Ville (Town Hall) still faces the harbor (perhaps because the Vichy authorities were even more Nazi than the Germans). The building contained a courthouse from whence prisoners were led across an enclosed bridge to the adjacent prison for incarceration, or worse…
There are vestiges of the Greek and Roman city in the public gardens, the Musee d’Histoire de Marseille in the Centre Bourse just behind the Quai des Belges, and the Musee des Docks Romainson the Place Vivaux farther down the Quai du Port. The Place des Moulins in the heart of Le Panier is reminiscent of a Greek village. Old stone fishermen’s cottages are now bars, cafes and Arab grocery stores.
On our way up the hill, our guide knocks at a nondescript door at what seems to be a private house in the Place des 13 Cantons. This is Michele Leray’s Chocolatiere, a savorous atelier-cum-front parlor inhabited by a sea of yapping dogs. Here we sample rich dark chocolate made somewhere on the premises (’85 percent cocoa’) and weighed out per kilo on ancient brass scales.
Crowning the hill is the Hospice de la Vieille Charite, a 17th century almshouse built by the Marseille architect, sculptor and painter, Pierre Puget. The building was saved from the ravages of property developers by Le Corbusier and Andre Malraux (Charles de Gaulle’s minister of culture) and restored between 1970 and 1986. It is now a museum and a center for exhibitions and concerts.
The Marche aux Poisson is held every morning from 9 until one o‘clock along the length of the Quai des Belges. Fish is fresh off the boats which are tied up behind the trestle tables – so fresh that from time to time a fish will slap about on the scales. Check that the registration plates on the stalls match those of the boats behind. (A few unscrupulous stall owners truck in their wares from somewhere else; supermarkets perhaps in the suburbs.) Bargains abound around noon when the fishwives colorfully strive to sell off the last of their catch.
The Marseillais go fishing or Sunday sailing en famille in the small boats crowded onto both sides of the Vieux Port. (There are about 300 much sought-after berths.) These are the sturdy high-prow pointus – serious little boats built to survive the open sea when the Mistral is blowing, a far cry from the plastic gin barges of Antibes, Cannes or St Tropez. While along the quay in front of the Hotel de Ville are the boat clubs – Groupe Amicale des Canotiers Phoceens; Union Nautique Provencale; Association des Vieux Marins Bateliers du Vieux Port…
On the left (south side) of the Vieux Port, behind the Quai de Rive Neuve, is t.he arsenal that Louis X1V built between 1665 and 1670 along with the two forts on each side of the entrance to the Vieux Port, less to protect the city from invasion than to establish the sovereignty of Paris over the unruly Marseillais. The Cours d’Estienne, a pedestrian precinct in the front of the restored arsenal buildings, is a popular gathering place with a multitude of bars and restaurants.
High up on the hill above the Quai de Rive Neuve is the florid much loved 18th century basilica of Notre Dame de Garde. While ten minutes drive, heading south around the headland on the Corniche are the parks and beaches of the Plage du Prado, where on winter Sundays the Marseillais parade their children and dogs.
You can drive as far as Callelongue just past Cap Croisette, where the coast road ends. Here begins the famous Calanques – a series of rocky creeks, a wilderness of cliffs and sea stretching 12 miles between Marseille and the picturesque little seaside town of Cassis – an unspoiled edition of St Tropez – 20 minutes drive on the D559. After Callelongue there is nothing but raw nature which you can only visit on foot – or by boat from the sea. You can walk for hours above the Calanques without ever seeing a sign of human habitation. In summer there are boat trips to the Calanques from the Vieux Port. In winter, you can hire a boat from Cassis.
You come in over the sea to land at Marseille-Provence Airport 18 miles north of the city. A terminal designed by the British architect Richard Rogers. It’s worth renting a car
at the airport: follow the signs on the autoroute to Vieux Port/Hotel de Ville. Parking is not a big problem over the weekend.
Arriving early evening on a Friday, we just wanted to stroll along the Vieux Port to get our bearings. A little ferry, which plies between the Hotel de Ville on the north side of the harbor and Place aux Huiles on the south side, saves you the longish walk via the Quai des Belges. For a taste of Provence, head for the fish restaurants around the Place Thiars. In the pedestrian precinct just off the Quai de Rive Neuve; or Les Arcenaulx on the Cours d’Estienne nearby – a bustling restaurant which comprises an art gallery and bookshop open till midnight. Or take the ferry across to the Bar de la Marine on the Quai de Rive Neuve – where Marcel Pagnol gathered material for his Marie et Cesar trilogy.
Saturday morning we explore Le Panier and La Veille Charite. Either have lunch in or around, or drive to l’Estaque, a small fishing port ten minutes north of Marseille past the Docks de la Joliette (restored like London’s docklands into offices and apartments) and the working commercial port.
Cezanne, Braque, Derain, Dufy and Renoir lived and worked at l’Estaque. Braque developed Cubism during several visits here between 1906 and 1910. Looking down on the roofs of the village from the little square in front of the church you could be sitting behind the easel of Braque or Cezanne, witnessing the birth of Cubism. There are lots of good places for lunch.
The Marche des Capucines, a 10-minute walk back from the Vieux Port, to the right of La Canebiere, is a taste of Africa, a crucial part of the Marseille experience. Here people come to shop among a dazzling array of fruit, vegetables and spices. Close by in a maze of streets and alleys around the Cours Julien is a multitude of restaurants – Pakistani, Indian, Chinese, Armenian, Jewish, Tunisian, Morrocan… Here you can eat authentic couscous; stewed lamb and spicy merguez sausages. Afterwards, you might want to stop by the Cantini Museum of contemporary art, a short walk away on Rue Grignan.
Saturday evening is the time to splurge at somewhere like Le Patalain, an elegant, rather garish restaurant in post art deco style – a place for serious gastronomes, shirt-sleeved arms akimbo… who want to see what they’re eating.
We had looked forward to bouillabaisse, the famous Provencale fish stew, said to be at its best in Marseille; but here you have to order it 48 hours in advance and for four to six people. Don’t expect the real thing unless you order it the day before, we are sternly told,
The ‘real thing’ consists of ‘at least six’ kinds of fish – baudroie; rascasse; rouget; St Pierre; congre; grondin – islands of juicy chunks swimming in a saffron-tinted broth. Don’t ask me to translate: some fish have different names in Marseille than in other parts of France. (Similarly, deep sea bass is called loup de mer along the Mediterranean and Bar if it is caught in the North Sea.) All I can tell you is that the villainous looking rascasse, which you often see in fish tanks, is called hog fish, or scorpion fish, and that rouget (red mullet) is full of bones (filets de rougets need to be well filleted). Shell fish and prawns and the like are often simply flung in as tourist trappings. Today’s gastronomic presentation is a far cry from its origins as a simple fish stew made from the remains of the unsold catch (mostly bony fish) left over at the end of the day.
Bourride is a simpler, some say more refined, form of bouillabaisse, using firm white fish such as cod, brill, turbot or monkfish, in fish stock and laced with aioli – the provencale garlic mayonnaise.
I compromise with dos de loup aux epices while the others have moules mariniere and pieds et paquets marseillais (‘little parcels’ of lamb wrapped in its tripe and stewed for seven hours in tomatoes, herbs and white wine, which sounds revolting but is delicious). We drink a crisp white wine from Cassis.
At table, the French invariably talk about food, what they ate yesterday, what they are eating now, and what they’ll eat tomorrow. We are joined by the ebullient patronne-chef Suzanne Quaglia. She orders up portions of other dishes for everyone to try.
‘I’ve taken to putting coriander in my moules.’
‘I use the broth from roast quail to make risotto.’
‘My sauce was too thick.’ ‘Ah, too many tomatoes: and you must let it simmer slowly.’
Plus a lot of cross-table talk about the illegal delights of small birds (including, would you believe sparrows and robins?) for which the French have a bizarre predilection and consider as fair game (no pun intended)…
‘Ah, yes, I had a warning last year,’ Suzanne says. ‘Next time it’s a fine.’ She gives a Gallic shrug and stretches her mouth in a mock grimace.
Sunday we have time for a leisurely drive along the Corniche, past the Plages des Prado to Callelongue, just after Cap Croisette, and walk down to La Grotte for lunch of charcoal grilled steaks and the best pizzas this side of San Remo. And more chat with the natives.
‘Marseille isn’t dead city, a museum like Florence or Venice,’ our Marseillaise says. ‘People don’t like tourists who just come to gape and stare. You have to discover the city through the people. The spirit of Marseille is the Marseillais.