ABSTRACT
Hear Wagner in Baireuth; see Velazquez in Madrid; eat bouillabaisse in Marseilles. Call for bouillabaisse in the Paris restaurant, at the LapeVouse or Marguery's; and, if the dish brought lack something of the true flavour, over it is cast the glamour and romance of its far southern home, of the land of troubadours and of Tartarin. The faint smell of ail comes to you gently from unseen kitchens, the feeling of bouillabaisse is everywhere, and tender anticipation illumines the faces of the passers-by. Great is the pretence of activity in the harbour and in the streets; at a glance, mere paltry traffic might seem the city's one and only end. Montenard and Dauphin may go on, year after year, painting olive-lined roads and ports of Toulon: the true Provenfal artist will be he who fills his canvas with the radiance and richness of bouillabaisse.
