A sort of soup or broth, or brew,
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes
That Greenwich never could outdo;
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffern,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace.
So sings Thackeray. A———, who, like myself, had never tasted the dish before, quoted the lines to me with enthusiasm, and we prepared ourselves for a wondrous treat as we sat in that cool, shady best dining-room of the Maison Dorée, looking out through the green Venetian blinds upon the hot and crowded Southern street. Alas! for disillusionment. When the Bouillabaisse appeared we attacked it eagerly. It was a thick sort of stew, in which there were many fishes, chiefly of the bony, spiky description, a considerable quantity of red pepper, saffron, and garlic, and an inordinate amount of bread.
A——— was the first to succumb. “I don’t care for it,” he said, pushing his plate away, and gulping down a goblet of Burgundy. If I had spoken the truth, I should have made the same admission; but loyalty to my great Master kept me silent. Only for a minute or two, however. With profound thankfulness I recognized the fact that my plate was empty, and eagerly declined the invitation of the waiter to accept of more. And this dismal fish curry was the far-famed Bouillabaisse! Thackeray must have been more gourmand than gourmet if he really liked it. But I consoled myself with the thought that though Bouillabaisse might not be worth eating, nothing could affect the charm of the immortal ballad, and whilst I waited for the next course I quoted, quite inappropriately, a few more lines from it:—
Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!
I mind me of a time that’s gone,
When here I’d sit as now I’m sitting,