To print this page, select "Print" from the File menu of your browser salon.com > Travel Feb. 10, 2000 URL: http://www.salon.com/travel/food/feature/2000/02/10/sanary Extra-large, eat your heart out Sanary-sur-Mer hosts the world's largest bouillabaisse. And lives to tell. - - - - - - - - - - - - By Richard Goodman Lucien Vitiello, the leading fisherman of Sanary-sur-Mer, a pretty town on the French Mediterranean coast near Toulon, began making preparations for the world's largest bouillabaisse weeks ahead of time. My intimate involvement began only the day before that last Sunday in June when, as it has been for the past 10 years now, this momentous feeding took place. When I say the world's largest bouillabaisse, I mean a bouillabaisse that has been certified by "The Guinness Book of Records" as such. I mean a bouillabaisse large enough to serve 1,500 people. I mean a steel marmite or cauldron nine and a half feet in diameter weighing 1,300 pounds in which to cook the bouillabaisse. It looks like a backyard swimming pool, and it was specially forged for this annual extravaganza. It has to be placed by crane on a fire made of 140 cubic feet of wood in a roped-off area on what is usually Sanary's main parking lot. I mean a bouillabaisse that requires 2,200 pounds of fish. I mean a recipe that asks for 15 quarts of olive oil, 1 1/2 pounds of saffron, 650 pounds of potatoes, 35 pounds of garlic, 65 gallons of fish stock, 5 log-sized bouquets garnis and 10 pounds of salt, not to mention Pantagruelian portions of tomatoes, pepper and onions. I mean a very big bouillabaisse. Lucien and his fellow fishermen ask 125 francs per person (about $19), and the profits benefit the Prud'homie, the fishermen's union. With your entry ticket, you receive a hefty portion of the bouillabaisse -- served in two stages, as always, broth first and then the fish -- bread, salad, aperitif, cheese, desert and all the wine you can drink. Before I came to Sanary-sur-Mer, I had never eaten bouillabaisse. In fact, I wasn't even sure what it was. I imagined it as a kind of fish stew. That is incorrect, I discovered. Stew, with its connotations of long, languid simmering, is the wrong idea altogether. Bouillabaisse is cooked rapidly over a very hot fire -- once it reaches a boil, it's done -- and must be served immediately. It is magic, a flourish, a grand show, full of saffron, scents and the bounty of the Mediterranean, as well as the South of France's elixirs -- olive oil, garlic and tomatoes. It is a dish that should be served to many people. It does not retain its character and ability to delight so well when just three or four people are present. So why not 1,500 guests? On the day of the great event, many of Lucien's friends met at Sanary's quay at 5 a.m. to unload, separate and wash the 2,000 pounds of fish that would be cooked and eaten later. The morning air was cool and soft and delicious to smell. It was light even at this hour, the port was placid and the water limpid. Many of the men at the quay at that early hour I did not know, or had only seen and had never met. They came to be part of something magnificent. The small town of Sanary-sur-Mer, which curves itself to accommodate the half moon shape of the harbor, looked like a Utrillo painting in the fresh gray light. I had come to Sanary eight months earlier to work with these fishermen and to write about them. This was a delightful and quirky conclusion to this sojourn. We all began to separate the semi-frozen fish. The fish were still in the boxes from the wholesale market in Toulon, and they cracked apart sometimes reluctantly. It was impossible for the fishermen to guarantee supplying enough of the required fish from their own nets, so Lucien had to purchase more from a market. We washed the frigid fish off by dunking them in big buckets of water. There they were, all together, all at once, the most heralded, fabled, delicious fish of the Mediterranean -- St. Pierre, with its black thumbprint on its side; the arm-thick congre, or eel; the famed rascasse, which plays an important role in Marcel Pagnol's book, "My Father's Glory"; the lethal vive; the very expensive lotte; the ridiculous-looking galinette. They were all there, all the fish I'd seen throughout the year, hauled up in the fishermen's nets and then sold by the fishermen's wives. I handled them affectionately. I saw familiar faces. The irrepressible octogenarian Louis Berenger was there, barefoot and talking away. So was Lucien's misanthropic cousin, Achille, working steadily and issuing gruff pronouncements. So was Jeannot, Lucien's mate, and Georges Bollani and even the doleful Henri. He and I had dived for sea urchins one cold morning. As I worked, I would glance up from time to time at the tall, stately palm trees and gaze. At 7 a.m., we stopped to have a casse croute, a meal of bread, cheese, salami, paté, wine and pastis. Throughout the morning, Lucien more than rose to the daunting task of feeding 1,500 people in just a few hours. This was Napoleon before a great battle -- serene, encouraging, masterful. We all worked confidently under his generalship. Most everyone went home after the casse croute. We all had that satisfying fatigue you have when you start work well before sunrise. After retrieving stray fish and swabbing the stone quay, there was little to do until 11 a.m. Then we were to meet at Sanary's parking lot near the end of the port to begin cooking this monster bouillabaisse. After a few hours' rest, I strolled over to the parking lot at the appointed time. It had been completely transformed. In the epicenter was a gulliveresque pile of neatly stacked firewood. The marmite was lowered with great delicacy by a crane onto the wood. Then we -- at least 20 of us -- began adding the ingredients. The bouillabaisse itself was so big it was laughable. Just the idea of seeing 650 pounds of sliced potatoes added to the pot still makes me laugh. Not to mention the 35 pounds of garlic and the 10 pounds of salt. (No, the bouillabaisse wasn't too salty.) Georges Bolloni, the jester of the fishermen, generously added water with a hose. In less time than I had imagined, we were ready. About noon, some authoritarian-looking firefighters arrived and positioned themselves formally around the cauldron ready at a moment's notice to douse the fire if things really got out of hand. The mayor was there to do the honors. He was almost burned to a crisp during the ceremonial lighting of the fire when the wind suddenly shifted, but he managed a hasty retreat just in time. The fire grew without incident. Spectators watched from behind the ropes, wide-eyed. In about an hour, the thing began to boil. The bouillabaisse was cooked! The marmite was lifted by the crane from its fire. It was deposited a short distance away, easily and carefully, onto a large metal stand. Next to it was a giant tent, capable of shading the 1,500 hungry ticket holders. Scores of tables had been set up under its cover. Serving began immediately. It was surprisingly efficient, too, with all the fishermen and their wives pitching in. Everyone got their fair share and more. I have to admit, I wasn't expecting the highest quality -- how could anything made to feed 1,500 people be that good? -- but it was delicious. Yes, indeed. Speeches were made by the mayor and by Lucien and by others, and people ate and drank and laughed. A recording of Fernandel singing the song, "Ah, c'est bonne, la bouillabaisse!" played over and over again. A communal feeling swept over this large crowd. Everyone struck up conversations with their neighbors. Total strangers exchanged kisses. You could say it was the freely poured wine, but it was something else, too. It was the idea of it all, the sheer exuberant vision of the thing, that brought us together. What a grand day! The last diners -- Lucien, some fishermen from Bandol and myself -- left around 6 p.m. Then the clochards -- the town drunks -- came with broken-down pots and scooped up the last puddles. They were welcome. There was enough for all. In the end, the bouillabaisse was completely gone. A ton of fish, gone in a few hours! The day wasn't over, though. Lucien wasn't content to have served the world's largest bouillabaisse. He invited a throng over for dinner that evening, and many of us ended up at his house in the hills talking and laughing late into the beautiful cool French night. It was a moment of glory for Lucien, as well it should have been. I was happy for him that it had gone so well and that the weather had been perfect and that so many people had come. "Did you like the bouillabaisse, Richard?" "It was amazing!" I said. "What about some more red?" he asked, reaching for the bottle. "OK," I said. He poured. "You'll come back for next year's bouilla, won't you?" he asked. "I wouldn't miss it, Lucien." But I did. It's just the way these things go. Lucien still sends me an invitation every year, though. And he always writes a little note. He says that maybe I'll come this year. "On sait jamais," he inevitably adds. You never know. salon.com | Feb. 10, 2000   - - - - - - - - - - - - About the writer Richard Goodman wrote the book "French Dirt: The Story of a Garden in the South of France."