A street there is in Paris famous,
For which no rhyme our language yields,
Rue Neuve de Petits Champs its name is—
The New Street of the Little Fields.
And here’s an inn, not rich and splendid,
But still in comfortable case;
The which in youth I oft attended,
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.
Ever since I first read those immortal lines, I had been longing for the chance of eating Bouillabaisse. I could no longer do so in “the New Street of the Little Fields,” for Terré’s Tavern has disappeared from the surface of the earth. But I knew that Marseilles was the headquarters of Bouillabaisse, the spot where alone it can be eaten in perfection; and so I waited for the opportunity which had now at last arrived.
This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is—